Eragon Redux
by dear-marauder
Summary: A rewrite of Eragon. What the story could have been like without the purple prose and cardboard characters. I've revised Alagaesian history a bit. First half mostly follows original plotline, but I can't speak for the second half yet. T for swearing. DEAD FIC.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So, I had this story uploaded a while ago, but somebody pointed out that the traders wouldn't have gone north in the winter, even if it was canon. So, I changed it to spring and did some other general revisions. Hopefully it'll be a bit better this time around.

* * *

Chapter 1

Eragon knelt and studied the deer tracks with a practiced eye. He could tell that the deer had been in the meadow less than half-an-hour before. It was getting late in the afternoon, and Eragon was sure they would be bedding down soon. He stood, wiping dirt off his hands and onto his work-worn clothing. Smithing wasn't easy on the clothes, Eragon thought ruefully as he continued following the trail. But he was grateful for the work at Horst's forge. It helped supplement the meager income Uncle Garrow's farm brought in, and it gave Eragon an excuse to do something—anything else.

Following the trail had brought Eragon deep into the Spine, the range of mountains that ringed his home in Palancar Valley and followed Alagaësia's western coastline. Strange men occasionally came out of the Spine bearing equally strange tales. When they came they usually ended up causing trouble to such a degree that most of the villagers in Carvahall—Eragon's village—had developed a superstitious fear of the Spine. Eragon was one of the ones who knew better. There was nothing evil about the Spine, so he had no qualms about tracking the game that led him there.

This evening, however, he was almost beginning to wonder if the adults of his village were right. He'd been tracking the deer for three days and he still hadn't been able to get close enough to take a shot at one of them. The supplies he'd brought with him were nearly gone, and if he didn't kill something tonight, he'd have to go home in the morning with nothing. Between the farm's income and Eragon's wages from Horst they could meet Sloan's prices at the butcher shop, but Eragon hated the thought of three wasted days. Well, not totally wasted, he decided as he made his way along the trail. He enjoyed hunting for the sake of the hunt more than the kill. But he didn't want to face the teasing of his cousin Roran if he came home empty-handed.

Eragon slowed his steps as he approached a clearing. The deer were sure to be there. He pulled his bow out of the buckskin tube that held it on his shoulder. He strung the bow and nocked an arrow with subtle movements so as not to scare the deer. The herd had a handful of fawns, and Eragon didn't want to orphan any of them, so he searched for an adult that seemed to be by itself. It didn't take him long to notice a doe that held her left foreleg off the ground. Poor thing; the leg was obviously causing her pain. She wouldn't survive with an injury like that; it would slow her down too much. An arrow through the chest was a quicker—and less painful—way to die than getting ripped apart by the predators that lived in the Spine.

Eragon crept closer, his bow ready, and hoped the wind wouldn't suddenly change directions and carry his scent to the deer. If they scattered now he'd have to go home with nothing. Garrow couldn't spare him for too many more nights. He took a deep breath and held it as he drew back on the bowstring. He was just about to let go when the ground began to shake.

The deer bolted and Eragon was thrown to his knees. He accidentally released the arrow as he fell and it flew off into the bushes. By the time the shaking had stopped and he'd steadied himself enough to take aim again the deer had all vanished.

Eragon swore. Roran was never going to let him hear the end of this, how "Eragon the Mighty Hunter" had come home empty-handed. Well, it wasn't his fault he'd gotten caught in an earthquake. He turned to see if he could find any trace of the missing arrow and stopped dead in his tracks.

The vegetation along the trail was blackened, almost as if someone had tried to light it on fire, which was strange, because Eragon was positive he'd been alone. Even the air smelt slightly burnt. But that wasn't the strangest part—the strangest part was the big blue stone that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Eragon knew _that_ hadn't been beside the trail just minutes before—he'd have noticed it. Where had it come from?

He peered through the trees, his brown eyes searching frantically for whoever might still be out there, wondering if the sudden appearance of the stone was a trap. In a movement so familiar he didn't even have to think about it, Eragon nocked another arrow and drew the string about halfway. When he didn't see anyone he relaxed and lowered the bow again, but didn't release the tension. He took a couple of cautious steps forward and poked at the stone with the arrow, ready to shoot or dodge at a moment's notice if the stone was booby-trapped. When nothing happened, he put his bow away and bent down to examine the stone.

It was pretty, and far too smooth to be natural. It had obviously been cut and polished by a person, and Eragon wondered who would go to the trouble. Was it valuable? It certainly didn't look like any stone he'd ever seen before, not even the blue agates that were sometimes set into jewelry. This stone was a dark blue with tiny white veins running through it. It was oval-shaped and about a foot long from end to end. Eragon was sure it would be heavy, too heavy to carry back down to the valley, but he picked it up anyway. It was too pretty to resist.

Surprisingly, the stone didn't weight much at all. About five pounds give-or-take, Eragon guessed. That wasn't much to carry at all, not with all of his food supplies gone. He shrugged and decided to take it with him. He had a habit of bringing back trinkets from memorable hunts, and this one certainly qualified.

But how had it gotten there? he wondered as he tucked the stone into his pack and began the walk back down the trail. The only way he'd ever heard of things appearing out of thin air was through magic. But that hadn't been magic, had it? Surely it was just an earthquake. But no, earthquakes didn't scorch all the vegetation in the area.

Alright, so what if he accepted that the stone had somehow been magically transported right to where he was standing? There had to be a person using the magic, and it was only logical that the stone belonged to that person. But why transport it? Was the magician—or whoever—transporting the stone _to_ someone? That made the most sense. But who would they be transporting it to? Carvahall was the closest village, and Eragon was positive there was no one there who'd have any ties to a magician. He'd known just about every person in that village for all of his fifteen years; he thought he'd know if there was a magician amongst them. And if the stone belonged to someone, didn't it follow that the someone might want it back?

Suddenly, he realized just how dark it had gotten. He'd been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the sun going down. Pity, as he'd seen some spectacular sunsets in the Spine, but the moon was beginning to rise, so he continued down the trail until he found a suitable place to camp. Eragon hadn't found answers to any of his questions, but he decided that they could wait until morning. After a quick look around to be sure the area was safe, Eragon unstrapped his bedroll and lay down. Now the stone's presence made him just a little bit nervous. What if the people who wanted it back found him in the middle of the night?

He slept with one hand on his bow—just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Eragon drug his feet as he hiked out of the mountains. He knew that Garrow and Roran would be waiting for him to help with the planting when he got back, and even though he didn't work the farm much anymore, Horst had given Eragon the season off so he could help and visit with his family. Eragon was grateful that Horst was so flexible in his requirements, but he half wished the blacksmith would be more demanding. He would be able to skip out on the farm work without feeling guilty.

In the days it took Eragon to find his way out of the Spine, he saw almost no wildlife. This made him feel uneasy. Lack of wildlife sometimes meant that they'd been scared away by a person, and Eragon kept a wary eye, still worried that whoever had been transporting the stone would come looking for it.

He was relieved when he finally broke out of the forest and could see Palancar Valley spread out below him. From his vantage point he could easily see Carvahall and Therinsford—the other village in Palancar Valley—and the farms surrounding them. He grinned as he began the descent to the valley.

It was dusk by the time he reached the outskirts of Carvahall, and lights shone out from the houses. Even though the lights weren't left on for him, Eragon found them comforting. They looked warm and helped Eragon imagine that nights in the valley weren't so cold. For the first time in the three days since he'd found the stone he allowed himself to relax.

Since the hunt had been relatively unsuccessful, Eragon decided to stop and buy some meat. Most of what Garrow had left in the cellar was dried and salted leftovers from Eragon's last hunt. It would be a nice treat to have something fresh. He wove between the houses, stopping occasionally to speak to someone or pet a dog, and finally made his way to Sloan's butcher shop.

"Good evening, Eragon."

Katrina, Sloan's red-haired daughter, was spreading clean straw over the floor behind the counter. "Good evening," he said, and gave Katrina a cheeky grin. Eragon knew that Roran was secretly courting the butcher's daughter, and that Sloan would not be pleased when he finally found out.

Katrina returned his grin. She understood full well what he was teasing her about. "I'll go get Father," she said, "if you're wanting to buy something."

"Thank you, I am. I wasn't too successful on this hunt."

Katrina shrugged. "Everyone has their off days. I'll be right back with Father." She finished scattering the straw then disappeared into one of the back rooms. A few moments later she returned with Sloan at her heels.

He was a small man, but his manner was often intimidating—though Eragon would never actually admit it if he were asked. "We're closed," Sloan said curtly as he took his place behind the counter. Despite his gruff manner, Eragon knew Sloan would sell him something. The man wasn't foolish enough to pass up a potential customer. "Katrina says you didn't get anything from your hunt. Just as well. Anything you bring out of those mountains is cursed."

Eragon didn't bother to argue. Sloan was known for his fear of the Spine. Though it had happened before Eragon was born, he had heard the town gossip which said that Sloan's wife had gone for a walk in the Spine one day and fallen into the river. Sloan had hated the mountains ever since and claimed they were cursed. Ismira could swim and shouldn't have drowned, Sloan said, so someone or something in the Spine had to have killed her.

"Do you have any meat left over from today?"

Sloan snorted. "Not at this time of night."

"It's not that late."

"It's dark, isn't it?" Sloan gestured toward the window with a large knife. "I'd call that late."

"It's dusk," Eragon argued.

"Close enough. I'm tired. Katrina's tired. We don't have time to be serving customers after hours."

Eragon crossed his arms over his chest and refused to answer. He knew that Sloan loved a good argument, so the best way to win was to say nothing.

"Well, be off with you, then."

Eragon caught Katrina's eye. She was standing behind her father with her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle. Eragon forced himself not to wink at her, and met the butcher's unblinking stare with one of his own.

With a huff, Sloan finally threw his hands up in the air. "All right, all right. I'll sell you something. Then get out of here. You're wasting my time. Now give me the money."

Eragon didn't let himself smile until he'd ducked down below the counter to rifle though his pack. He dug his hands through its contents, then frowned. "That's strange. I know it's in here." He began pulling things out of the pack.

"What's strange?" Sloan leaned over the counter, bringing his perpetually scowling face closer than Eragon liked.

"My money purse," Eragon said, more to himself than to Sloan. "I can't find it."

"If you don't have the money, then get out of here. I don't run a charity shop."

"I have the money," Eragon snapped. "It's just fallen to the bottom of my bag." He continued unpacking, and wished that Sloan would stop staring at him. Finally, after unpacking nearly everything, Eragon found the purse at the bottom of the pack. It had somehow slipped down underneath the stone, which Eragon had placed at the bottom of his pack, due to its weight. He counted out a few coins then handed them to the butcher. "I want as much as I can get with this."

Sloan scowled as he took the money. "What's that?" He pointed at the stone in Eragon's pack.

"Just a stone," Eragon replied, hastily shoving things on top to hide it. Given the circumstances surrounding its arrival in the Spine, Eragon hadn't wanted anyone besides his family to know about it.

"It's blue," Sloan pressed, "which I've never seen in any local stone. And it's huge; it's got to be heavy. What are you carrying it around for?"

Eragon quickly made up a lie. "It's for luck. I always take it with me on a hunt."

Sloan frowned. "Pretty big stone to be carting around on a hunt. Damn waste of pack space and energy if you ask me. Probably expensive too, wherever you bought it from. Your uncle know you're wasting good money on nothing? Course he doesn't. You probably stole it, or the money you used to buy it." He seemed to believe Eragon's excuse, however, because he stopped asking questions and disappeared. Eragon sighed with relief as he placed the last of his things back in the pack. He knew that Sloan was mostly talk and didn't believe half of the things that came out of his own mouth, but the man still made Eragon nervous. He was so nosy.

Katrina's face replaced her father's over the edge of the counter. "You don't believe in luck," she said. "What's the real story?"

Eragon almost lied to Katrina too, but he figured that if he did, she'd probably know. She was perceptive like that, so he decided to tell her part of the truth. He stood and, after a quick glance to be certain that Sloan was still out of earshot replied, "I found it in the Spine. I didn't want to tell your father because I know how he feels about the mountains."

Katrina made a silent "oh" with her lips and nodded. "You're right. Probably best not to tell him."

"It came out of the Spine?"

Eragon and Katrina guiltily whipped their heads around. Sloan's ears were sharp and he'd heard them anyway. He hurried forward and shoved paper-wrapped packages of meat into Eragon's arms. "Take it and go. I don't want your cursed stone under my roof for another second."

Katrina rolled her eyes. "Father, don't be ridiculous."

Sloan's eyes flashed dangerously and it took all of Eragon's willpower not to cower. He could see why Roran was afraid to tell the man he was courting Katrina. "Ridiculous, am I? It's bad enough that he goes and hunts in those mountains, but to bring something out of them is just foolish. That boy's brought trouble down on us all with that stone, Katrina. You see if he hasn't." He turned back to Eragon. "Out!"

Eragon quickly packed the meat then swung the bag and his bow back onto his shoulders. He saw Katrina give her father an exasperated look before hurrying around the counter and walking Eragon to the door. He thought he heard her mumble the words "pigheaded" and "foolish" but he couldn't be sure.

"I'm sorry, Eragon," she said as they stood outside. "Father overreacts sometimes."

Eragon shrugged. "It's fine. He has his reasons for being afraid of the Spine. I'll see you later, Katrina."

"Be careful walking home," she said. "It _is_ getting dark. And," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "tell Roran I said hello."

Eragon smiled. "I will." He waved, then set off through town.

His progress was a bit slower than it had been earlier in the day. The meat weighed him down, but the pack wasn't any heavier than it would have been if he'd succeeded in shooting a deer. By the time he'd passed beyond the lights of the village it was fully dark, but Eragon wasn't bothered. He'd walked the route so many times that he had no trouble finding the path that split off from the main road. He followed it through a field of tall grass and over the crest of a hill before he saw the lights of his own house. Now that he was so close, he could feel weariness setting in and was relieved when he finally reached the front porch of the little cottage. He knocked on the door. "Uncle, it's Eragon. I'm home."

There was a shuffling sound on the other side of the door, then Eragon heard the bolt being withdrawn. A worn, skinny old man opened the door a couple of inches and peered through the crack. Satisfied that the boy was who he'd said he was, Garrow opened the door all the way and let Eragon in, then silently returned to his chair by the fire.

Roran, also sitting beside the fireplace, looked up from the stick he was whittling. "So? How'd you do?"

Eragon shrugged as he hung his bow and quiver beside Roran's on the rack beside the front door. "Well enough." He moved across the room to the kitchen table. Shrugging out of the backpack, Eragon set it down on the tabletop. Roran came over to help him unpack.

"The deer sure are making it easier on hunters nowadays," Roran teased when he saw the wrapped packages. "What did it do, butcher itself for you?"

Eragon rolled his eyes. "I didn't get anything in the Spine. I stopped by Sloan's on the way back."

Roran raised his eyebrows. "How'd that go?" Eragon knew he wasn't just asking about the business transaction.

"With Sloan, not so well, but Katrina said to tell you hello."

Roran blushed and glanced over at Garrow, who graciously pretended he hadn't heard the last part of Eragon's comment.

"What went wrong with Sloan?" the old man asked.

"He thinks I've cursed Carvahall," Eragon said as he stacked the meat packages on the table.

Garrow frowned. "Because you went hunting in the Spine?"

"No. Because I brought back something I found there."

Roran, who'd started to carry the meat down to the cellar, turned around.

"What did you find?" Garrow said.

"A stone."

Roran snorted. "He's worried about a stone? The man's a nutter."

Eragon didn't disagree. Still… "It's an—unusual stone. I'll show you both when I've finished unpacking." Roran nodded, then scurried out of the room. Eragon carried the pack to his room and removed his things. He carefully set the stone on his bed while he returned everything else to its proper place in the room. He hung the extra clothing on the pegs behind the door, and slid the pack under the bed. Finally, he picked up the stone and brought it out to the sitting room.

"Whoa, that's huge," Roran said when he saw it. His eyes grew round and his knife dropped to the floor unnoticed. Garrow didn't say anything, just held out his hands to take the stone.

Eragon felt strangely reluctant to hand the stone over, almost as if he were being asked to give a child to a stranger. But then he realized how ridiculous that was and held the stone out to his uncle. The old man turned the stone every which way in his hands and rapped it with his knuckles before saying, "You found this in the Spine?"

"Yes." Eragon quickly explained what had happened; how there had been an earthquake, which was why he'd been unable to get a deer—Roran snorted when he heard this, pretending he didn't believe Eragon—and how the stone had just suddenly been there when he'd turned around. As if it was magic.

"Magic?" Roran scooted closer and reached out to touch the stone. Eragon frowned, feeling something that he didn't quite recognize as jealousy when his cousin caressed the stone's surface. Roran looked up at Garrow. "Do you think it's some sort of gemstone? I've never seen anything like this before."

"Nether have I," said Garrow. He handed the stone back to Eragon who unconsciously cradled it close to his chest. "Keep it, for now. When the traders come through town we'll have it appraised, see what it's worth. The best thing to do would be to sell it, especially if it is magical. There's no reason for us to get involved in doings like that."

Eragon nodded. He knew that Garrow was right. According to all the old stories, magicians were bad news. Besides, if the stone really was worth something, it would help get the family through the months until harvest. They weren't exactly poor, but neither were they well off. It wouldn't hurt to have a little bit extra for once. But Eragon didn't want to sell it. He wanted to put it on the shelf with all his other curiosities, like the twisted old root he had picked up while plowing the fields and the chunk of pyrite he'd found during his first hunt.

"I'm going to bed," he finally said. "I'll see you both in the morning." He turned and went back into his room. Too tired to do anything else, Eragon put the stone under his bed before lying on top of his blankets fully dressed. He was asleep within seconds.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The tall, thin man held a pair of pincers up to his face; they held a bloody, broken fingernail. He cocked his head to one side as he studied the nail, then looked across the room to where a woman sat hunched and trembling in a chair. Her face was downcast and covered by her black hair. Her wrists and ankles had been tied to the chair, and three of her fingertips were bloody—the same color as the man's hair.

The man sighed and set the pincers on a tabletop that was covered with similar instruments. "My dear, we don't seem to be making any progress." His voice was soft and persuasive. "Perhaps you need a break. Here." He picked up a pitcher and poured something into a cup. "Drink this." The woman looked suspiciously at the cup. "You haven't had a drink in nearly forty-eight hours," the man continued. "It would be best for both of us if you drank now."

Despite her obvious fear, the woman curled her lip in a sneer. "What do you take me for? You wouldn't offer me refreshment if it didn't further your aims."

"If you don't drink, you'll die from dehydration."

"What does it matter? I'll die anyway."

"No, my dear, you won't die any time in the near future. You're much too important to me. But, if you don't wish to drink, I won't force you." He poured the contents of the pitcher onto the floor then, with his maroon eyes locked on her face, slowly drank the contents of the cup. "Nothing but water in it, you see. But, since you don't wish to drink…" He let the sentence trail off. The woman licked her lips as she eyed the wet spot on the floor. "Now then, where were we?" He set the cup down on the tabletop and picked up a razorblade.

A voice came through the closed door of the chamber. "My lord, Durza."

"What do you want?" His tone became substantially sharper than the one he used on the woman.

"I have word from the king. It concerns the boy."

Durza swore, then placed the razorblade back on the table. "Enter." The soldier opened the door and peered warily around the edge. Durza swore again. "I said, enter! If the king's message requires an urgent reply, I'd hate to have to tell him that you delayed me."

"Yes, my lord." The soldier crossed the room at a quick trot, handed Durza a sealed scroll, then quickly retreated to the doorway. He didn't leave, however; he hadn't been dismissed.

Durza's eyes narrowed as he read the letter. Finally, he turned on the soldier. "Did you know of this?" His voice was dangerously mild.

"I know nothing, my lord," the soldier said. "All's I was told was that it's about the boy."

Durza stared at the soldier until he was satisfied that the young man was telling the truth, then he rolled up the letter and turned his attention back to the woman. "I have to go, my dear," he told her softly. She closed her eyes and sagged back against the chair in relief. "Oh, don't be sad. I'll be back soon. We have so much more to discuss." He gently ran a hand down the length of her hair before walking out of the room, ignoring the way her spine stiffened at his touch.

The soldier didn't follow. He looked the woman up and down and, after checking to be sure Durza was really gone, began to walk toward her. "Pretty," he said to himself as he too reached out a hand to her hair.

"Don't!" The guard whirled and saw Durza standing in the doorway with one hand on the pommel of his sword. "I'm not finished with her."

"I'm sorry, my lord," the soldier said, wondering how Durza had known his intentions and returned so quickly. He stepped away from the woman. "It's just that you said the men—"

"I said that I'll let the men have her _when I'm done with her_." Neither man noticed the woman's hands clench into fists and strain against the ropes that bound her. "However, I'm not finished with her yet. If she breaks too soon she won't be able to tell me the things I need to know, and I'm terribly afraid that giving her to the men will break her spirit.

"Now come with me, and lock the door behind you." He turned and walked down the hallway.

"Yes, my lord." The soldier hastened to do as he'd been told.

"Shut up, Carsaib," Durza snapped, "and just do as you're told."

"My lord?" The soldier trotted down the hallway until he caught up with Durza. "My name isn't Carsaib."

Durza raised an eyebrow. "I never said it was."

The soldier pulled up short, obviously confused. He looked down the hallway in both directions, but didn't see anyone else Durza could have been addressing. "He's mad," the soldier finally said. "Just like the rest of them. I was daft to join the military." He walked in the opposite direction from Durza, trying to get as far away from his commander as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

When Eragon woke, his thoughts turned—as they often did in quiet times like the early morning—to his mother. He knew that her name was Selena, that she was Garrow's sister, and that she'd suddenly vanished from Carvahall one day and then just as suddenly returned years later. She'd stayed just long enough to give birth to Eragon before disappearing again.

Eragon knew all the facts, but he still didn't understand _why_. What about having a child had been so bad that she'd felt it necessary to abandon him?

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Roran opened it and poked his head around the edge. "Get up, lazy. Father's already made breakfast; we have to finish the planting." Roran started to withdraw his head, but then he saw Eragon's expression and frowned.

"You're thinking about her again." It wasn't a question.

Eragon propped himself up on his elbows. "I can't help it. I just wish I knew _why_."

Roran moved into the room and sat on the edge of Eragon's bed. "Does it matter? She's gone, and nothing can bring her back."

Eragon winced. Roran had lost his mother too. "Aunt Marian didn't choose to leave," Eragon pointed out. "She died."

"True. But the outcome is still the same. Brooding won't get you any answers." Eragon nodded. "Come on. We have to get to work." Roran stood and walked to the doorway. "Eragon?"

"Yes?"

"For what it's worth, I'm glad she left you with us."

Eragon gave his cousin a half smile as the door closed again. As close as the two boys were, Roran didn't—couldn't—completely understand. Roran had always known that his mother had loved him, and while Eragon had grown up knowing that Garrow and Marian loved him too, it wasn't the same.

But like Roran said, brooding wouldn't give him any answers. Eragon climbed off his bed, stripped, and put on the clean clothes he'd hung up the night before. He left his bedroom and made his way to the kitchen table. Just as Roran had said, there was a bowl of porridge sitting at his place on the table.

"'Bout time," Garrow said without looking up from his porridge. "Thought you weren't going to wake up." He picked up a large chunk of bread from the center of the table and moved it closer to Eragon's bowl. "Hurry up. Planting is waiting."

Eragon grimaced, but he knew better than to complain aloud.

"I swear, I get less tired working at the forge," he said to Roran when they stopped for lunch that afternoon.

Roran laughed. "I don't see how that's possible." He pulled some leftover breakfast bread out of his satchel and gave half of it to Eragon. "Do you think Horst might know what your stone is? He is a blacksmith after all."

Eragon considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "I doubt it. He doesn't work with stones. But he might know someone who does." He took a drink, then passed the wineskin to Roran.

"What about the traders? They'll be here in about a week."

"I thought of that," Eragon said. "But, if I take it to them, they might expect me to sell it."

Roran frowned. "Isn't that what you want to do? It looks like it could be worth a lot of money. You could even get enough to buy your own house or start saving to get married. You're almost of age, you know."

Eragon laughed. "Ever since Katrina first let you kiss her, you think about marriage all the time! I won't be ready for that for quite a few years." He picked up a twig and began using it to trace lines in the dirt. "I don't know what I want to do with the stone," he said.

"Just have the traders look at it," Roran advised. "You don't have to sell if you don't want to." He returned the wineskin to Eragon, who drank the last of its contents. "Come on. We've still got a lot to do before nightfall."

When Eragon woke the next morning he decided he'd done enough farm work for a season; he wanted to go hiking. He got dressed and bent to retrieve his backpack from under the bed. The blue stone was still sitting there, right where he'd put it the night he found it. Eragon set it on the shelves beside his other trinkets and promptly forgot it. He went to the kitchen and filled the pack with food for the afternoon, slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and tried to sneak out without waking Garrow and Roran.

He left Carvahall and hiked south along the Anora River towards Therinsford. He saw deer tracks, but wasn't in the mood to follow them. He stopped to eat at about noon and fed bits of bread to a hare that left the underbrush to inspect him. Just as he'd tossed the animal the last of the bread, shouts from down the road startled the hare. It fled, but Eragon didn't notice; he was more concerned about the shouting.

It didn't take long for him to realize that the shouts were good-natured rather than threatening, and when the group of people drove carts into view, Eragon let out a whoop and ran back the way he'd come. He met Roran about halfway—his cousin, knowing Eragon's favorite haunts, had followed him.

"The traders are on their way!" Eragon exclaimed. Roran grinned and sprinted after him. They burst through the front door of the house, both wanting to be the one to tell Garrow that the traders had arrived.

"They're here, eh?" Garrow said before either boy could speak. He calmly placed another log on the fire, though Eragon didn't think the weather was cold enough to warrant it. "Best sit down. It's going to take them a few hours to get to town and get their booths ready."

"Can we go now?" Roran asked. "We could help them set up."

"You boys will just get in the way. Or, rather, Eragon will just get in the way. You'll make a nuisance of yourself over at Sloan's trying to get a glimpse of Katrina." Roran blushed. "No, you can just wait here. We'll go to town first thing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Eragon said. "But—"

"Tomorrow," Garrow said with finality. Both boys knew better than to argue. "We'll go and get your stone appraised first thing, Eragon, then you both can do whatever you want for the rest of the day."

Eragon sighed, but he knew Garrow was right. None of the traders would have their wares ready until tomorrow anyway.

Eragon and Roran spent the rest of the afternoon speculating about what new merchandise the traders might have brought this year. Roran wanted to buy some small trinket for Katrina, while Eragon was looking forward to the food: the traders always brought sweets with them. But mostly he was looking forward to the stories. The traders would go visit the tavern in the evenings, and people would get drunk and tell stories. Brom, Carvahall's temple priest, was a good storyteller, but he hadn't told any new stories in a long time.

Eragon assumed that was because nothing ever happened now that was worth telling stories about. There were no more epic heroes, and the only villain anyone ever talked about was King Galbatorix. He wondered how long it would be before something worthy of the old epics happened again in Alagaësia.

* * *

Halfway across the country, a young man of approximately twenty years sat curled up on the ground with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was alone, except for a large grey horse. "As much as we'd like to, we can't have a fire, Tornac," he said as the horse nudged his shoulder with its nose. "They'd find us, and that wouldn't be good." He pulled the blanket tighter around his body. "I know they had plans for us, but I just couldn't sit back and wait any longer. I'm going to do things my way now. I need answers—_real _answers."

He felt something nudge his mind, a curious probing as if someone—or something—was searching for him, and there was the sound, no, not the sound, the _feeling_ of someone calling his name. _Murtagh._

He shuddered and pressed his fists against his temples, but the probing increased.

"I thought I told you to stay out of my head."

Confusion. Then annoyance.

"Just…Just leave me alone for awhile, okay?"

Nothing.

Murtagh shivered again, and pulled the blanket tighter around his body.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Eragon could barely contain his excitement as they walked to Carvahall the next morning. Despite the weight of the stone in his pack, he managed skip ahead of his cousin and uncle, sometimes breaking into a run then stopping to wait for Roran and Garrow to catch up.

They could hear the bustle of the village before they arrived, and once Carvahall was in sight it was easy to see why. The traders were camped in one of the outlying fields, but had set up various booths in the center of the village. Roran laughed as Eragon tried to look in four directions at once.

"We've got all day. You don't have to take it all in within the first ten minutes."

Eragon grinned sheepishly until a fire-breathing gypsy distracted him.

Garrow stopped the boys at the edge of town and pulled some coins out of a money pouch. "Here," he held them out to Roran. "Go buy a trinket for your girl.

"Eragon, come with me."

Eragon grinned at Roran and said, "Don't get caught," before turning to follow his uncle. "Who are we taking it to? Merlock?" Garrow nodded.

Eragon studied the traders as he and Garrow made their way through the crowd. Despite the excitement of Carvahall's people, the traders seemed fitful and wary. Eragon noticed that they didn't appear to trust their customers, even though they visited Carvahall regularly and were familiar with the villagers. A few of the tradesmen wore swords, and Eragon thought he saw a weaver hiding a dagger in the folds of her skirt. None of the children left their mothers' sides even when the village children asked them to come out and play.

What had happened to make them so fearful? They were usually such cheerful people.

Eragon and Garrow had to wait behind a small group that was crowding Merlock's booth. The old trader was shrewd and usually had some of the most exotic wares at the fair; Eragon knew it would be a long wait.

"And what would you sirs be after today?" Merlock asked once the rest of his customers had left. With a flourish, he presented Eragon and Garrow with a delicately carved silver rose. "Made by the finest craftsman of Belatona. It's my favorite of all the pieces I have with me, but for _you_ I will part with it for less than three crowns."

Eragon couldn't help smiling; he'd heard Merlock use at least three variations of the line on his previous customers. Merlock held out the rose. "Ah, the lad likes it, I see. For your sweetheart, perhaps?"

"We're not here to buy," Garrow interrupted.

Merlock immediately sobered and slipped the rose back into his sleeve. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "if I find your item of interest, I could accept it in trade." He crossed his arms a bit defiantly.

Garrow said nothing in reply, and Eragon eagerly glanced between the men's faces to see which would break first.

"Well, did you actually _bring_ it?" Merlock finally snapped.

"We did. We'd rather show you in private."

Merlock raised an eyebrow, though whether in suspicion or interest Eragon couldn't tell. "In that case, follow me." After locking his wares away in a chest and ordering a young boy Eragon hadn't noticed before to guard it, Merlock led them across town and into the camp.

His tent was on the edge of the camp, as if he didn't trust his fellow traders. He invited Garrow and Eragon inside and gestured for them to sit in strange chairs that had been carved out of tree stumps. He took one of the two chairs for himself, which left Eragon standing beside Garrow.

"Well, where is it?" Merlock said impatiently. Eragon looked to Garrow for confirmation before lowering his pack and opening it. He'd wrapped the stone in one of his shirts to protect it from chipping, and as he removed the layers of material, he felt a strange sense of nervousness, almost as if he—and the stone—had something to prove to Merlock.

The old trader's eyes narrowed and he greedily reached out his hands for the stone. "Beautiful," he breathed. "Exquisite craftsmanship. I've never seen anything sanded so smooth." He stood and carried the stone over to a small table where a set of scales sat. He weighed it, murmuring under his breath as he did so. Eragon winced as Merlock scratched the surface of the stone with a smaller, clear stone.

"Interesting. This," Merlock said as he held up the clear stone, "is a diamond, the hardest gemstone in the world. When sharpened, it can cut anything—even glass—yet I can't make even a scratch on this stone." He tapped it with a small mallet—which caused a hollow gonging sound—then turned to face Garrow. "Where did you say you acquired this object?"

"I didn't say," Garrow replied.

Merlock waited a moment, as if expecting Garrow to say more, then picked up the stone and handed it back to Eragon. "I can't take it."

Eragon felt relief mingled with disappointment and the fear that the stone wasn't good enough to meet Merlock's standards. "Why?" he said as he rewrapped it and returned it to his pack.

"Why won't I take it? Because the blasted thing was made with magic, that's why! It's perfectly smooth and symmetrical, which something made by human hands should never be. It's not made of stone, but of something much harder, something I probably couldn't damage unless I took a hammer and a chisel to it. And it's hollow. I tell you, that thing wasn't made by human hands."

"But what's it worth?" said Garrow.

"Worth? I don't give a damn what it's worth. I'm sure that it would fetch the right price from the right buyer, but that buyer isn't me. I could never charge enough to recoup my losses unless I took it to the cities in the south, and there's no guarantee that it wouldn't cause me trouble in the meantime. It'd likely get stolen by another trader before I could find a buyer. It's not worth the risk. We've had enough trouble as it is."

"The traders do seem a bit warier than usual," Garrow replied. "Why?"

"Urgals. The brutes seem to be migrating towards the desert, and rather than navigate around the villages and cities in their path, they mercilessly cut straight through. King Galbatorix has been drafting more and more men to fight in his border skirmishes against the Varden, so when the urgals come, there's no one left to fight. People have sent messages to the king, asking him to release the men so they can protect their homes, but of course he'll have none of it."

Garrow shook his head. "I'm not surprised. Does anyone know why the urgals are migrating? I thought they tried to avoid human settlements."

"Nobody knows. I've also heard talk of a Shade, but I don't give much credence to it. People tend to get superstitious and blame bad luck on the ghouls. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my booth before some blackguard bribes my boy and makes off with my wares." The trader hustled Eragon and Garrow out of the tent, and made his way back into town without a backward glance.

"Well," said Garrow as they walked back toward Carvahall, "it appears that you'll have to hold onto the stone for the time being." Eragon sighed in relief; he'd been afraid that Garrow would want to show it to another trader. Garrow handed him a couple of coins. "Buy yourself something," he said.

Eragon pocketed the coins. "Don't forget, Horst invited us to come for supper."

"I'm not so old that I can't remember things you told me a month ago," Garrow said with a snort. "Get on with you; you're wasting my time."

They parted ways at the edge of town. Garrow walked towards the main street where other traders had set up their booths, while Eragon made his way toward the tavern.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I know, this one's a bit long. Not _quite_ as long as chapter two, but almost. I probably could have split it where Eragon leaves the tavern, but short chapters annoy me, unless they're for a quick point of view shift.

I think, but I don't promise, that the next couple of chapters are going to be about Arya and Durza. I'm also trying to figure about where to throw in the next Murtagh bit. I know what he's doing--it's just getting the timeline to flow right that's hard.

* * *

Chapter 6

Eragon stepped into the tavern and paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. It was still early in the day, so there weren't very many customers—just a couple of men at a corner table and a younger man at the bar, staring morosely into his mug. Eragon was surprised to see that it was Roran. He hadn't expected to see his cousin until they met at Horst's that evening. He frowned and joined Roran at the bar.

"What's wrong?" He nudged his cousin in the ribs, trying to get Roran to look at him. "You look like Katrina just jilted you."

Roran shot a glare at Eragon then stared back at his drink.

"She didn't!"

Roran shook his head and sighed. "No, she didn't."

"Then what's wrong? Is someone in town ill?" Eragon's thoughts turned immediately to Brom. The priest was ancient and walked with a cane.

"Nobody's ill. It's Sloan." Roran downed the last of his drink and signaled for Morn, the tavern's owner, to refill it. "I asked him for Katrina's hand."

"And he said no." Eragon laid a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Roran, I'm so sorry."

Roran glared at him again. "Will you stop interrupting? He didn't say no, but he said I can't marry her until I earn enough to pay for her dowry. He's demanding five crowns."

"But that's robbery!" Eragon sputtered. "That's almost _twice_ what Merlock was charging for his carved rose, and it was made of pure silver. Sloan knows the farm doesn't turn much of a profit. How are you supposed to earn five crowns?"

Roran shrugged. "I'll have to leave the village. Therinsford is a bit larger; I might be able to find work on a larger farm or at the mill."

"Leave!" Eragon gripped Roran's arm with urgency. "You can't leave. If you go I won't see you for months, maybe even a year. _And _I'll have to go back and work on the farm."

"Eragon, I know you hate the farm, but it's only temporary, I promise. As soon as I have the money, I'll come back. You can continue your apprenticeship with Horst, or even leave the village yourself."

Eragon sighed and slumped down over the bar, supporting his chin with a hand. Roran leave? It was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. What would Eragon do without him? Who else would he talk to about his mother, Garrow's eccentricities, and his crazy dreams for the future? Roran just _couldn't_ leave.

He jolted upright as an idea hit him. "Roran, you can have my apprenticeship. That way you won't actually have to go anywhere. When he knows why, I'm sure Horst won't mind."

Roran shook his head. "I appreciate it, but no. Horst can't afford to pay anyone, and you ought to know better."

Eragon slumped again. At least he'd tried. Suddenly, this trip to the village wasn't any fun. "But you promise you'll come back? You won't settle in Therinsford?"

"Of course not. I don't want to leave Carvahall permanently, and Katrina would never live so far from Sloan. I'll be back as soon as I have the money."

"But what if we've grow a really good crop this year? Enough to sell more than half. Couldn't you stay then?"

"Eragon, stop it!" Roran punctuated his exclamation by pounding his fist on the bar. "I don't want to go any more than you want me to, but I want to marry Katrina more than I want to stay, so I'm going. You can't change my mind."

For just a moment Eragon considered accusing Roran of loving Katrina more than he loved Garrow and Eragon, but even as he thought it, Eragon knew he was just being selfish. He wouldn't be half so upset if Roran's absence wasn't banishing him back to the farm.

He pushed himself off the barstool and made for the door. "I'll see you tonight at Horst's," he said. Roran merely grunted and dismissively waved a hand in Eragon's direction. Eragon sighed again and pushed through the door and out into sunlight. Shielding his eyes, he made his way across the village to the temple. Maybe if he made an offering to Adelia, she'd give them an extra-large crop to sell and Roran could come home sooner.

The temple was on the outskirts of the village so the bustle of the village wouldn't disturb the goddess or her husband, Ludik. Adelia was the gentle mother-goddess so she might not mind, but Ludik had a very bad temper, and no one wanted to risk him casting lightning bolts at their home or crops.

Eragon was at the temple's threshold when he realized that he didn't actually _have_ anything to offer. Garrow had given him some money, but it seemed like cheating to offer something that wasn't actually his. He was about to turn around again when he remembered the stone. Eragon wasn't sure what it was really worth, but it was his, even if it _had_ appeared out of thin air, and Merlock had said it was magical. What better offering for a goddess?

He stepped through the open doorway and slowly made his way to the altar at the back. There were no images of the gods in the small temple, but Eragon always imagined Adelia as smiling, with grey-streaked hair. She would be slightly plump, and have a habit of humming, like his late Aunt Marian.

When he reached the back of the temple, Eragon slipped the pack off his shoulder and set it on the floor. He lifted out the stone and set it on the altar with all the other offerings, but the moment he let go of it, he was nearly overcome with the urge to snatch it back again.

"I can't," he said, his words echoing in the empty room. "You can't take back a gift. That _would_ make the goddess angry." He resolutely turned and, shouldering his pack, walked toward the doorway.

He only made it five steps before he felt like an unseen force was pulling him back to the stone. He struggled against it and made it two more steps before he couldn't go forward any more. Unable to do anything else, Eragon turned and walked back towards the altar. With each step, the pull lessened so that when he was close enough to touch the stone, the force was completely gone.

"You want to stay with me? Fine," Eragon snapped. "I'll keep you. But if the goddess gets mad and gives the farm a lousy crop this year, I'm blaming you." He shoved the stone back in his pack as he walked toward the front door, not much caring if he chipped it in the process. He was just stepping out doorway when a voice from behind stopped him.

"Eragon." It was Brom, the old priest. Eragon waited the seemingly endless minutes it took Brom to cross the temple, amazed yet again that Brom was even alive. He didn't look as old physically as some of the elderly people in Carvahall, but there was a sadness about him that made Eragon think Brom had seen true tragedy. The old priest had what appeared to be a large burn on the palm of his right hand, and Eragon secretly wondered if Brom had lost his family in a fire. Or, maybe he'd fought in the war when King Galbatorix and his Forsworn had overthrown King Lionel, and he'd been captured—maybe even tortured. Galbatorix's general, Morzan, or maybe even Galbatorix himself, had held Brom's hand in a torch flame, trying to get him to reveal—

"What are you thinking about, Eragon?" Brom's voice held just a hint of a laugh and Eragon had the uncanny feeling that the old priest knew exactly what he'd just been imagining.

"I was thinking about Galbatorix and his dragon riders."

"Ah. That is a sad story for everyone, an example of what happens when people get too greedy for power."

Eragon nodded. Everyone in Alagaësia knew the story of Galbatorix's rise to power. He had been one of the dragon riders, part of the elite human-elf alliance that kept peace between the two main civilizations in Alagaësia. One day Galbatorix and some of his comrades had been sent to attack a settlement of urgals. Another company of riders had been mistakenly sent to attack the same village and, not realizing that Galbatorix's company had already defeated the urgals, they attacked. Galbatorix's company was taken by surprise, and though the fight stopped almost immediately, his dragon was fatally wounded.

Embarrassed by their poor planning, the riders tried to hide their mistake and claimed that urgals killed Galbatorix's dragon. When Galbatorix refused to spread the lie, the elder riders rejected his application for a replacement dragon. In retaliation, Galbatorix stole a dragon hatchling, killed its rider, and fled.

If the dragon had been all that Galbatorix had wanted, few would have found fault with him, but Galbatorix decided that the riders weren't fit to keep peace in Alagaësia. He believed that the country would only be peaceful when it was ruled by one man—and that he should be that man. He recruited some of his comrades and they first destroyed the dragon riders, then overthrew the human king, Lionel. The elves, because of their magic, were harder to defeat, and so far Galbatorix's attempts had been unsuccessful.

While it was easy to see who the villains in the story were, Eragon often wondered who the heroes were supposed to be.

"Was it really such a bad thing that Galbatorix destroyed the dragon riders?" Eragon asked. "After all, it was their fault his first dragon died."

Brom shook his head. "You ask difficult questions." He grimaced and gingerly lowered himself to the floor. Eragon sat beside him. "Was it bad for the corrupt elder riders to lose their power? No, I don't think it was. However, many were blamed for the actions of a few. Not all of the riders were corrupt, and there was at least one among them who would have been capable of leading."

Eragon raised his eyebrows. "Really? How do you know?"

Brom looked startled for just a moment, then shrugged and said, "They couldn't have all been evil. Some of them were just boys at the time, years younger than you.

"But you didn't come here to talk about the dragon riders. There's something else on your mind, I can tell. Who were you talking to in the temple?"

"Myself." Eragon wasn't about to admit that he'd been talking to a stone. "I was going to ask Adelia to give us a better harvest."

Brom frowned. "Has your family fallen on hard times?"

"No, we're no worse off than usual. It's just that—" Eragon hesitated a moment, but decided to go ahead and tell Brom the truth. He'd eventually find out anyway. "Roran is leaving. He has to earn five crowns before Sloan will let him marry Katrina. I just thought…" His words trailed off.

"You thought that if Adelia gave you a big enough harvest, the extra money could go to Roran so he could come home sooner."

Eragon nodded.

"You're a good friend, Eragon."

"But I'm not!" Eragon burst out. "Of course I don't want Roran to leave—I'll miss him. He's my best friend. But it's not just that. If Roran leaves, I can't stay at Horst's. Brom, I don't want to go back to the farm. Nothing ever changes; nothing exciting ever happens." He scooped up a pebble and tossed it out into the street. "I'm sure that makes me a horrible person, but the farm is just so boring!"

Brom smiled, but there was sadness to it. "Change isn't always for the best; think of Galbatorix."

Eragon scowled. He felt like Brom was patronizing him. "That's not what I meant."

"I know it wasn't, but my words still have merit." He sighed when Eragon stubbornly looked away. "Try thinking of it this way: the sooner you go back to the farm, and the harder you work, the sooner Roran will be back and you can return to Horst."

"Which I probably ought to do now. Uncle Garrow, Roran, and I are staying the night at his house. I'm supposed to be there by supper."

"Off with you, then, as soon as you help an old man to his feet." Eragon stood and clasped Brom's hand, hauling him upward. "Thank you, son. Don't get old if you can help it."

Eragon grinned. "I won't."

"Go on." Brom gestured down the street toward the center of the village. "I'll put in a good word with the goddess."

"Thanks, Brom." Eragon hefted his pack and began the walk back to Horst's house.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I lied. You get Brom this chapter. Arya and Durza are next.

* * *

Chapter 7 

Brom frowned as he watched Eragon walk away. The boy wasn't telling the truth. He'd been talking to someone—or worse, _something—_in the temple. If Garrow had let the boy get involved in sorcery, Brom was going to have something to say about it. Sorcerers usually came to bad ends. Look at what had happened to Carsaib.

Sighing, Brom went back into the temple. As soon as he was out of sight, he straightened and began to walk faster, resting the unnecessary cane on his shoulder to keep it out of the way. He sometimes wished he'd taken on a different persona when he'd moved to Carvahall. It was going to be so _trying_ to spend the rest of his long life pretending to be crippled.

He opened a door behind the altar that led to his quarters and slipped inside where he tossed the cane into a corner. He stripped out of his priestly robes and quickly dressed in the simple shirt and trousers most men of Carvahall wore. Donning a hooded cloak to hide his grey hair, Brom exited his quarters by a side door.

It wasn't dark out yet, but with the hood hiding most of his face, and the difference in his walk, Brom was certain that only one man would recognize him. He met that man in the traders' camp.

"Merlock," Brom said as he entered the trader's tent. "What's the word in Alagaësia?"

Merlock motioned to one of his chairs without looking up from the necklace he was examining. "Urgals, just like you probably heard from everybody else. They're migrating south, though why they're going to the desert just before the hottest time of the year is beyond me. I've heard reports of a few border skirmishes with Surda—some say Orrin is tired of paying tribute to Galbatorix, and a band of soldiers at a northern encampment was supposedly attacked by ghosts."

"Elves." Nobody else could attack Galbatorix's men so invisibly.

"Most likely. A few villages toward the south had stories of dwarf sightings, but you know as well as I do how unlikely that is."

Brom chuckled. "There hasn't been a dwarf in Alagaësia since the Riders formed."

"Which is why some believe sighting one will bring good luck. I know I wouldn't mind if they took it into their heads to come back. I've seen some of the jewelry they made in the old days. Nothing human-made can compare.

"But I wouldn't be worried about what's happening in the rest of Alagaësia when the most important developments are occurring right here in Carvahall."

"What do you mean?" Brom leaned forward in his seat.

Merlock set aside the necklace and finally looked Brom in the eye. "You'll never guess who came by my stall today, and with something to sell, too."

"You're right, I won't." Brom didn't have time to waste on guessing games, but Merlock looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for just that. Finally, realizing that Brom wasn't going to let him gloat, Merlock sighed.

"Garrow, the farmer who lives—"

"I know who Garrow is," Brom interrupted. "What of him?"

"Well." Merlock leaned back in his chair with a gloating look on his face. "He and his nephew brought me what they thought was a large gem. I'm thinking it was the nephew's, because he was the one carrying it, and he seemed quite reluctant to let me inspect it."

Brom shrugged. "What of it? Eragon frequently hunts in the Spine, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if there were gems hidden somewhere."

"This was a very smooth stone, Brom. Perfectly oblong, and blue. A deep, royal blue with white veins. And there was something of power about it, as if it was exerting an influence over the boy." Merlock raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he found a dragon egg."

Brom laughed even as he felt his heart sink. "The chances of Eragon finding a wild dragon egg in the Spine are even slimmer than those of the southerners having really seen a dwarf. I see I've wasted my time tonight. Still, we have an agreement." He dug into a money purse and fished out a few gold coins, which he then tossed to Merlock. "Next year, give me something more substantial than fairy tales."

He kept his composure until he'd left the traders' tents far behind. Only then did he let himself swear aloud. Eragon had stumbled on a dragon egg, and a blue one at that. After living for more than a hundred years, Brom knew better than to believe in coincidences. He had to be completely sure before he acted on the information, but he had to be sure _soon_. Brom was positive it was the egg Eragon had been talking to in the temple, and if he was foolish enough to give it to the gods just to get a good harvest, anything else could happen to it.

At least he could be fairly certain the boy was safe. As far as Eragon or anyone else in the village knew, the boy was nobody. Brom was fairly certain he had time to write to the Varden and find out whether or not it was the one he'd helped them steal from Galbatorix's hatchery before it caused too much trouble.

At the moment, Brom was much more concerned for Arya. Last he'd heard she'd been the egg courier. If it really was the Varden's, then she'd been ambushed and was enduring gods only knew what horrors. He quickened his steps. He had to get back to his quarters; if he sent a letter tonight, he'd hear back by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. In the meantime, he needed to come up with a plan. Whether or not Eragon's egg belonged to the Varden, it was going to hatch, and the boy had to be ready when it did.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So, most of this is old material, but some of it at the end is new. I'm having all sorts of fun with Durza. He's such a creepy bastard.

* * *

Chapter 8

The dark-haired woman had no idea what had been in the letter Durza had received, or where Durza had gone after reading it. All she knew was that it had put him in a very foul temper—and that she had been the one to suffer for it. After the letter, he'd spent what felt like several days with her, inventing new ways to try and pry information from her. But she'd resisted, and so far the only thing he'd been able to get out of her was her name—Ayra—and she considered even _that_ too much.

She had a lot to hide. As the Elvish ambassador to the Varden—the underground rebellion against Galbatorix—Arya knew more than most. She knew who the leaders of both the elves and the Varden were, as well as the location of their main cities, information Galbatorix wanted quite badly. Additionally, she was the last person to be in possession of one of the three known remaining dragon eggs in Alagaësia—a dragon egg that had once belonged to Galbatorix and that he wanted back.

Well, he wasn't going to find it. She'd sent it to Brom in Carvahall just before Durza had captured her—or, at least she'd tried to. It was easy to send small things, like letters, by magic, but the egg? It took a great deal of energy to accurately send something that large and alive, energy that she'd been short of at the time. She only hoped it hadn't fallen into the wrong hands.

Arya stiffened when she heard a soft knock at her cell door, followed by the rattling of keys. She could just glimpse red hair through the window bars. He was back. She did her best to build a mental defense in case he tried to break into her mind again, but it was difficult—much more difficult than it should have been. He was breaking her, she realized.

And he had the gall to whistle as he entered her cell with a tray of food.

"Breakfast time, m'lady," said the Shade. He walked across the cell, holding the tray out in front of him. Arya instinctively backed away. Her captor didn't seem to notice, however, and merely set the tray on her cot. "'Sup to you whether or not you eat," he said, "but I would. Durza's not going to be happy if he comes back to find out that you haven't taken your medicine."

Arya frowned. The man was speaking about himself in third person. "What medicine?" she asked as she warily eyed the food.

The Shade shrugged. "Dunno. Durza just said you needed to have it. Something about it being safer for us if you did."

Arya snatched back the hand that had been inching toward the food. It must be drugged, she realized, which was why she was having such a difficult time constructing mind shields and using magic. Narrowing her eyes, she turned her attention back to the Shade. "Who's 'us'?"

"Durza and me o'course."

Arya frowned again. "You _are_ Durza."

The man shook his head and grinned. "Nope. I'm Carsaib." Arya swore under her breath. There were two of them? "I might be Durza tomorrow, though," the Shade continued. "Or maybe even later today. It just depends on when he feels like coming back."

"You're mad," Arya decided. "You have to be. That's the only way this makes any sense."

"No, just possessed." Carsaib nodded toward the tray of food. "You really should eat that before Durza comes back."

Of course; Durza was a Shade, a sorcerer who'd been overpowered by the spirits he'd once summoned. Carsaib must be who Durza had been before. He seemed like a nice person, but that didn't mean that Arya was going to trust him.

She looked disdainfully at the tray of food. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No's a matter o' fact, I don't. Which is why you'll eat the food. If you don't, Durza will force-feed you, and I don't think you're currently strong enough to resist him."

Arya glared at Carsaib, but reached with her good hand for the food. The other was missing all of its fingernails, and Arya was fairly certain that a couple of those fingers were broken as well.

"Ah, that did the trick. 'Elves are full of pride,' Durza's been saying. 'Threaten humiliation and there's nothing you can't get them to do.' 'Cept for you." He cocked his head to the side as he studied Arya. "You're very stubborn. Whatever you're hiding must be very important indeed; 's obvious that Durza's been working on you for a long time. Pity; you were so pretty."

Arya grew furious. Did this Carsaib think she couldn't remember all the abuses she'd suffered at Durza's hands? Did he think she didn't feel her injuries? The possibility of losing her beauty was the least of her worries. She just wanted to be left alone so she didn't have the chance to accidentally tell Durza anything he wanted to hear.

Still, this Carsaib was very talkative—probably more so than Durza would have liked. She might be able to use that to her advantage, assuming Carsaib didn't turn back into Durza while she was questioning him.

She suppressed her anger and forced tears to well up in her eyes—a trick she'd learned to use well at an early age. Elf children were rare and thus doted on; turn on a few tears and the adults where sure to cater to the child's every whim, especially when that child was Arya, the Elf Queen's daughter.

The trick worked on Carsaib as well. Arya tipped her head down, making the tears spill down her cheeks, and had to fight back a smirk when Carsaib's eyebrows pursed in concern.

"M'lady, what's the matter?"

"I—" Arya took a deep breath, as if she was trying to fight the urge to cry. "I do—don't understand. I was just doing my job, but then Durza ambushed us and k—killed my guards." This time, when her breath caught, it was for real. She'd cared a great deal for Glenwing and Fäolin—especially Fäolin—though she wasn't going to let Carsaib know that. "And then he brought me here, and I h—have no idea where I am and neither does anyone else."

Carsaib awkwardly reached forward and patted Arya on the shoulder.

"And then he got that letter, and it made him so _angry_. He came back and did such horrible things and—" Arya buried her face in her hands and pretended to sob. She peeked through her fingers and saw that Carsaib had a very confused look on his face. He seemed torn between pity and duty.

"I'm so sorry, m'lady. 'S just—well it is his _job_, you know. To extract information, I mean." At this, Arya made herself cry even harder.

Carsaib looked around the cell, with a panicked expression, until he caught sight of the water pitcher. He poured a cup for Arya and handed it to her. She accepted it, whispered "Thank you," and pretended to drink.

"'S just that the letter—well, it had some very bad news in it."

Arya sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "The messenger said it was about a boy. Why did it make Durza so angry?"

"The king wants him to leave Gil'ead and search for the boy. Apparently he's run away."

Ah! So, she was being kept in Gil'ead. "What boy?"

"Morzan's son, Murtagh."

Arya's head jerked up, all pretense of crying forgotten. "Morzan! The first of the Foresworn had a son?"

The Shade was silent for a moment. "Very clever, my dear." He cocked his head to one side as he studied her. "You managed to glean some important information from Carsaib. He's weak and stupid, which is why I had to take control of him. But you," he gave a mirthless chuckle, "you are quite impressive." Durza lifted a hand to Arya's bruised face. "I had no idea just how impressive you would be. I shall have to make a point of spending more time with you."

"That's not necessary, Durza," Arya said. She forced herself not to tremble. "I'm quite comfortable by myself."

Almost before she had time to register it happening, Durza reached out and slapped Arya across the face. "I don't have time to deal with insolence," he said coldly. "In fact, I don't have time right now to deal with you at all." He collected the tray and water pitcher before leaving the cell and slamming the door behind him.

He growled at one of Arya's guards and jerked his chin in the direction of the cell door. "Not yet," he said when the guard's eyes grew hopeful. "But soon." A lecherous smile spread across the guard's face; he peered in the cell and winked at Arya. Durza curled his lip in disgust and walked away. Humans were such low creatures, always lusting after something; food, power, sex, wealth, it made no difference. They were driven by their appetites, rather than letting those appetites be their rewards for hard work and service. Like Carsaib and his infernal love for others of his species—he couldn't stand to see them suffer; it hadn't been easy for Durza to rein him in during the elf's interrogations. In fact, Carsaib had nearly broken through during the last session.

'_S wrong. You know it's wrong._

"It's not. I'm following orders. I'm a spirit—it's what I'm _supposed_ to do."

_You'll kill 'er._

"Not if she tells me what I need to know."

_You know where she sent it._

"I know who she probably sent it to; I don't know where it is."

He passed a soldier in the corridor who raised his eyebrows at Durza's seemingly one-sided conversation. Durza raised a fist as if to backhand the soldier, who quickly averted his eyes and quickened his steps. "See, Carsaib? All one needs to keep these humans in line is a firm hand."

_Arya's not human._

"So that makes her better than the rest? More special somehow?" Arriving at his quarters, Durza yanked open the door and strode inside. "The elf is no more or less important than anyone else on this miserable continent. Now leave me alone. I have to write to the king and tell him I can't possibly leave just yet. Murtagh is too helpless to do any real damage; he can wander around by himself until I've finished with the elf."

Carsaib didn't reply.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: It's been a long time since I've updated, which is sad considering that this chapter has been written for nearly two months. I've just been so busy with school and moving that it wasn't high on my list of priorities. And, since I moved, I misplaced all the notes I took on what is supposed to happen next, as well as the re-vamped backstory. In short: I suck. I'll have to try and find them this weekend, because writing this is such a welcome change from all the serious academic stuff I have to do during the week.

And, if you've given me a review that I haven't personally replied to, I apologize. Again with being busy. I do appreciate the reviews, however; especially when they contain constructive criticism. Even after four years of writing, I'm still learning.

As for this chapter: It's about Murtagh! Really, isn't that all one needs to know? ;)

* * *

Chapter 9

Murtagh had spent so much time alone that the bustle of Teirm was nearly deafening. It wasn't where Murtagh wished to be, because it was one of Galbatorix's army outposts, but he'd heard rumors of a witch in Teirm, and if anyone could help him retrace his mother's footsteps, it would be a witch.

As he approached the city gates he nearly wished he was riding a different horse. Commoners didn't ride large, grey warhorses, and the last thing Murtagh wanted was for the guards to take special notice of him.

_Why worry? Be proud._

Murtagh snarled and raised a gloved hand to rub his temples. If only he could do something about that voice. He couldn't get it out of his head, no matter how hard he tried to shield his thoughts.

_Do not try._

Shaking his head, as if that would dispel the voice, Murtagh straightened in his saddle, but left his shoulders slightly hunched. He wanted to appear confident, but not imperious—like the semi-wealthy son of a merchant, someone who knew he was better than most of the rabble around him, but not poised enough to draw too much attention.

_You _should_ draw attention. You are a Rider_. _My Rider_.

Murtagh sighed, and now the slump in his shoulders was genuine. "Piss off, Thorn."

Confusion that wasn't Murtagh's clouded his mind for a moment. _Piss…off… I do not understand this._

Murtagh knew there were a lot of things the young dragon didn't understand, especially Murtagh's reasons for leaving him alone just after hatching. He planned to explain everything to Thorn, but not yet. This was _his_ time, and if he didn't take it now he'd never have the chance to. If he knew Galbatorix—and after sixteen years of living in the king's stronghold, only Durza knew the king better—he was already being hunted. It was only a matter of time before the king sent Durza to find him.

He stared resolutely ahead as he approached the city gates, as if he wasn't aware of the guards standing on either side. "Nice horse," he heard the guard closest to him say, and he tensed, ready to wheel Tornac around and flee, but the guard didn't say anything else. Still, Murtagh didn't let himself relax until he was well into the city.

_I said, don't worry._

"Thorn," he said irritably, "if you don't stop distracting me, I'll never find the witch, which means I'll never come home."

_You will never find which what?_

Deciding that now was not the best time to educate the hatchling about the various types of magic-wielders, Murtagh chose to ignore the last comment and concentrate on his search. It wasn't hard to find the seediest part of town, but Murtagh didn't want to take a horse like Tornac with him. Not only did he run the risk of getting the horse stolen, but Tornac would draw too much attention. He decided that he would have to visit an inn and rent a stall for the horse before he could continue his search.

It didn't take long to find The Green Chestnut, and as Murtagh dismounted a small boy ran out of the shadows and grabbed Tornac's bridle.

"Are you the stable boy?"

"Yes. My father owns the inn."

Murtagh frowned. He wanted to trust the boy's wide-eyed expression, and after taking a moment to study the boy's clothes, Murtagh realized that he was well-dressed, if more than a little dirty. The boy was a scallywag, but probably not desperate enough for money to risk stealing a horse.

"Take him to the stable," he ordered, and fished out a coin to tip the boy.

"Thanks mister! I'll take real good care of him."

Murtagh refrained from saying "You'd better" and walked into the inn. It wasn't as crowded as Murtagh would have liked, but it was busy enough that one more patron shouldn't be too obvious. He threaded through the tables and made his way straight to the bar.

"Evening," said the bartender. "I'm Martin. What can I do for you?"

Murtagh set a few coins on the bar. "I need to rent a stall for my horse."

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Just for your horse? Don't you want a room?"

Murtagh gave what he hoped was a sheepish smile. "I'm not sure I can afford one. Besides, I've been traveling so long that I don't think I could sleep on a proper bed. I'll pay extra for the stall if I need to."

Martin waved the offer away with one hand while he pocketed Murtagh's coins with the other. "You're already paying for your horse. If you can fit in the stall with him, I see no reason to charge extra. Is there anything else I can do for you? Food? A drink?"

Murtagh shook his head. "Maybe later. I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"I don't know exactly. I'm told there's a witch in Teirm."

Martin snorted. "There are witches on every street corner of every large city in the kingdom."

"Not the bangle-laden imposters. I'm told there's a genuine witch here."

"There might be, Mister—"

"My name's Ciaran."

Confusion clouded Murtagh's brain again. _It is Murtagh._ Murtagh closed his eyes and tried to fight through Thorn's grip on his mind. The confusion lifted, but was quickly replaced by irritation. _Do not ignore!_

"What do you want with the witch?"

"My brother was pressed into the king's army, and sent up north to try and invade Ellesméra. We haven't heard from him in months, and my mother is getting very worried. We thought a witch might be able to tell us whether or not he's okay."

The irritation increased. _Not true. Lying is bad_.

"…rumors…side of town."

Murtagh shook his head, trying to clear it of Thorn's consciousness. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I said, there are rumors of a witch who lives on the other side of town, near all the wealthy merchants, but I've never actually heard her name." Martin frowned. "Are you okay, Ciaran? You look ill."

"No, just tired," Murtagh said with a half-hearted smile.

"Are you sure you don't want a room?"

"I'll be fine. Which side of town did you say?"

"West."

"Thank you." Murtagh gave Martin a genuinely grateful smile.

"You're welcome." Martin held out his hand to Murtagh. "I hope you find her, Ciaran. I remember losing my father to the king's army. It was years before we knew what had happened to him."

"That's not a bit surprising." Murtagh sighed and turned away from the bar. "I'll see you later this evening."

_You lie_.

"Yes, Thorn, I lied. It's not the first time, and it's not going to be the last." Murtagh was careful to speak quietly. He didn't want any of Teirm's residents to get the idea that he was crazy or, worse, a Shade. Shades were greatly feared by most people, and while Murtagh didn't look like a Shade, he wasn't about to take any chances.

_Lying is bad_.

"Not always. It's what is going to keep me alive, which is in both of our best interests."

_Do not die; I will be sad_.

"You'll also go mad."

_Angry, yes. Sad more._

Murtagh laughed. Somehow it didn't surprise him that Thorn would be angry if he died. The young dragon didn't like to be inconvenienced. "Not that kind of mad. Insane mad."

_Why?_

"Because our minds are connected. Dragons get their speech and powers of reasoning from their Riders. If I die, you will lose that."

Murtagh felt a twinge of displaced nervousness. _Then do not die._

"Not planning on it. Now, stop talking so I can concentrate on finding the witch." But Murtagh had no idea how to go about doing that. Martin hadn't been able to give him specifics about the witch, and he couldn't just walk into the merchants' district and start asking questions. As a Rider, he could theoretically draw on some of Thorn's innate magical abilities, but since he hadn't stayed in Urû'baen long enough to learn to use magic properly, that wasn't going to help.

"I don't know what to do next," he said, not quite realizing he was talking to Thorn instead of himself. "Where would a witch live?" Where she could have a garden, he realized, in order to grow herbs for her potions. And probably on the edge of town, so that she wouldn't be terribly conspicuous if she could really turn into a cat the way the legends all claimed.

"The docks. Or, the closest house to the docks. That's where most cats live, so she'll want to be nearby."

_Murtagh is smart._

"We'll have to wait and see."

Once he reached the section of houses he assumed was her neighborhood, Murtagh began to systematically search all the streets. He knew he looked as if he didn't belong, but he wasn't sure how else to go about finding the witch. She could live in any of the houses in the area, even the ones he'd already examined and dismissed.

Something soft brushed up against his legs then tangled itself in his feet, dropping him to the pavement. Murtagh swore, pushed himself up to his knees, and then jolted as the soft thing brushed him again. He looked down. It was a cat. A strange-looking cat with shaggy, haphazard fur. "Are you her?" Murtagh said. "The witch, I mean."

The cat opened its mouth in what Murtagh could only think of as a grin, then began to run down the street. "Wait! I need to talk to you." The cat didn't stop, however, so Murtagh jumped to his feet and raced after it.

He was never quite sure later which route the cat took to the witch's house, though he thought later that the cat led him through some streets more than once. Finally, when Murtagh was just about ready to give up the chase, the cat rounded the corner of a building and disappeared.

"Well, that's nice," Murtagh said when he reached the spot where the cat had disappeared.

_Good for Murtagh!_ Thorn said, completely missing the sarcasm in Murtagh's tone.

"Now what am I supposed to do? I don't even know how to get back to the inn."

An annoyed yowl came through the window of the house beside him. Surprised, Murtagh examined it. It was a very ordinary-looking house, the sort that any successful merchant would have had. It didn't have talismans hanging from the windows or smell of noxious brews, and Murtagh thought that if this was the witch's house, she must not be practicing anymore. All the same, he'd spent weeks trying to find her, and he'd never forgive himself if he didn't at least talk to her.

Still, he was a bit afraid. What if she was still practicing? Did he want to know what she would tell him?

_Truth is best_, Thorn said, and for once, Murtagh took the dragon's advice. He nervously raised a hand and knocked on the door.

It opened seconds later to reveal a woman with wildly curly hair.

"There you are, Murtagh! My name is Angela. I've been waiting for you for quite some time."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: So, it's been months since I've done anything with this story. I still haven't found my notes -- I think I lost them in the move -- but I mostly remember what's supposed to happen next. For the next couple of chapters at least. I need to take some time and replot the rest, and I need to finish reading _Brisingr _so I know how much of it I want to keep. A couple of plot points in the original may significantly change what I had planned for this fic.

Anyway, we've got another Murtagh chapter. Enjoy it, as I'm not planning to write anything more about him for a while.

* * *

Chapter 10

Murtagh was taken aback. "What do you mean, you've been waiting for me?"

"Exactly what I said. Do you not understand words?" Angela grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the doorway. The house was overly warm inside, and Murtagh realized the witch had a cauldron set over a fire. "I sensed that you were nearby, so I sent Solembum to find you and bring you to me. I imagine that you have a lot of questions for me."

"I –" Murtagh stopped, licked his lips, then tried again. "How do you know who I am?"

Angela sighed. "Humans. They always ask the most foolish questions first. Sit down!" She pointed to a pile of cushions in the middle of the room. Murtagh frowned as he looked at them. Why didn't this woman have proper furniture? It was clear from the size of her house that she had plenty of money. It wouldn't be difficult for her to buy a chair or two.

Something brushed his ankles. He only realized it was the cat after he'd jumped backwards a pace. It climbed to the top of one of the pillow piles, then turned to look at Murtagh. He could almost swear he saw it wink at him.

_Go_, said Thorn. _Listen_.

Resigned, Murtagh stepped forward and tentatively lowered himself onto the flattest cushion he could find. He found that it was like sitting in sand – it molded itself around him – and he hoped he wouldn't have to quickly get to his feet.

"There's a lad. Now that you're comfortable –"

Murtagh snorted.

" – I'll tell you what you came for."

"I know why I came."

"No, you only think you do. You think you're here because you're retracing your mother's footsteps. You think you're here because I'm a witch and can tell you where she went on that last journey, why she died afterward, and if there's a way to avenge her. I can and will tell you those things, and some of them are important. But they're not the real reason you're here."

_What does she mean?_

"Quiet," Murtagh muttered, hoping the witch wouldn't hear.

"Ah, you hear the voice in your head already. I see you also bear the mark." Murtagh clasped his fingers so that the palm of his right hand – and the mark on it – was hidden. "I had hoped that you would come to me before this. I might have saved you." Angela's voice held a note of disappointment. "You are so much better than that, Murtagh."

"Better than what?" he snapped.

"Better than Galbatorix's lackey. His pet. The dragon has already hatched for you, I can tell."

The alarm that coursed through Murtagh was Thorn's as much as his.

"Don't be afraid; I won't turn you in. I'm sure that the king has soldiers looking for you everywhere, but they won't find you."

"Why not?"

Angela laughed. "I may not look it, but I'm old, lad. Very old. My magic may not have the same sort of power that the king's does, but I know how to keep myself from being discovered. If I hadn't made a promise to your mother, you'd never have found me today.

"He'll track you, using your dragon. Your minds are connected, and I can sense that you fight it, but your dragon does not. It's not in their nature to do so. They crave language; doesn't yours talk more than you wish it to?"

Murtagh gave a half smile. "He does."

_Do not!_

"There you have it. When their minds are connected, a dragon always knows where his Rider is. Yours is very young; all it will take is a talented magician to read his thoughts and the king will know where you are."

"But you just said they won't find me."

"They won't. I'm going to give you something that will keep your dragon from being able to contact you, at least until you've finished your journey."

_No! Murtagh can't!_

Murtagh's immediate reaction was to agree with Thorn, but he knew that the witch was right. He had taken care to hide Thorn from the king, but if Thorn were found, it would be only a matter of minutes before the king knew where Murtagh was as well.

"I'll give you a few moments to confer with your dragon," Angela said softly. She stood and left the room, Solembum trailing at her heels.

_Murtagh can't!_ Thorn said again.

"Thorn, I have to. It's the only way to be sure the king can't use you to find me."

_He'll bring you back. I won't be lonely._

"I can't go back! Do you have any idea what he'd do if he knew you hatched for me? We'd be slaves, Thorn. He'd bind us to him the way he's bound Shruikan, and we'd never have a moment's peace."

_Use magic_.

"I can't – I don't know how. See?" He stretched his hand out towards the cauldron fire and twitched his fingers. The flames flickered the tiniest bit, but only someone who was paying close attention would have noticed. "We don't have enough power yet."

He felt a wave of resignation wash over him and knew Thorn had given in. "It won't be forever, I promise."

_Come back soon. I miss you._

"I'll miss you too, Thorn." He said the words mostly to comfort the young dragon, but the moment he said them he realized they were true. Thorn had been in his head for weeks, reading his every thought and emotion. It was going to feel lonely to have only his own thoughts in there.

"I'll check up on you, I promise."

_Better_, the dragon said, _or_ _I'll eat you later._

Murtagh rolled his eyes. "We're ready," he called out.

Angela returned from the next room by herself. "I've sent Solembum to retrieve your horse and pay your bill at the inn. Here, take this." She carried an amulet in her hands. It was small and silver, with runes carved into the charm. "This will shield you from Thorn's mind. I can't tell you anything else until you've put it on."

Murtagh put the chain around his neck, and the sudden silence in his head was almost deafening. His thoughts seemed to echo.

"You'll get used to it," Angela assured him. "Now that your dragon can't hear, I'll tell you the rest. My house is safe. I performed certain enchantments when it was being built that prevent it from being scried. So long as you are here, no one will be able to find you using magic."

"Then how can Thorn –?"

"The bond between you is not magical. No, that's not entirely true. It was _created_ by magic, but it does not require magic to sustain. Which is why you can hear each other's thoughts, even though you lack the power to put out a simple kitchen fire." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the cauldron.

"Now, I know you didn't come here to be sheltered from the king. You're stubborn and independent, qualities which I admire. But you're too important to be let go."

Murtagh pushed himself up out of his cushion and placed a hand on his dagger. "You can't make me stay."

"I certainly can. If I wanted to, I could turn you into a frog and leave you sitting in a cage until the others get here, but I won't."

"What others?"

"The tired one, the royal one, and your brother."

Murtagh felt his knees go weak. "I don't have a brother," he said hoarsely.

"Sit down, lad," Angela said gently. She patted the cushion beside her. "Let me tell you a story about a woman named Selena."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: It's been a while since I've updated, I know. I'm sorry. I had end of term, and a wedding, and I've just been crazy-busy.

Anyway, here's the next chapter. With the exception of one more Arya-centric chapter a bit in the future, I think most of it will be from Eragon's point-of-view for a while.

* * *

Chapter 11

Roran left Carvahall the very next day. Eragon hadn't slept at all, and judging from the tossing and turning on Roran's pallet, he hadn't either. Finally, Roran had given up the pretense and quietly began packing his things. When he finished, he knelt beside Eragon, who turned his face away and shut his eyes.

"Eragon, don't be like that," Roran pleaded. "I know you're awake, and I know you're angry. But I won't be gone long."

"You say that now."

"I swear. I'll swear it on anything you like."

Eragon sat up. "Anything?" Roran nodded. Not quite sure why, Eragon pulled his pack to him and dug the blue stone out of it. "Then swear on this."

Roran frowned. "You want me to swear on a rock?"

"It's not just any rock," Eragon said defensively.

"It's still a rock."

"So's a diamond. You said you'd swear on anything I wanted."

"Fine." Roran rolled his eyes, but he reached out and set his hand on the stone. "I swear on this – whatever it is – that I will only stay in Therinsford long enough to earn the money I need to marry Katrina. You happy now?"

"Yes," Eragon said, but he was no longer paying attention to Roran. He thought that the stone had warmed when his cousin had sworn on it. But, no, it was its usual temperature; it must have just been his imagination. He placed the stone back in his pack and rolled up his bed, then carried both outside where Garrow was waiting for them.

"You –" he pointed at Eragon, "– make sure to tell Horst that you're coming home with me, and you –" he pointed at Roran, "– travel safely." And with that, he walked away.

"He doesn't want to say goodbye to you," Eragon said.

"I know. He'll miss me as much as you will. More, I reckon."

"Not likely," Eragon said with a snort. "I'm won't have anyone to talk to without you around."

"You'll survive somehow." Roran paused. "I really am going to miss you."

Eragon just nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak.

"And keep an eye on Katrina for me."

Eragon nodded again.

"And stay safe. Gods know you're always getting into some sort of trouble."

"Hey!" Eragon reached out and punched Roran in the shoulder. He hesitated a moment, then threw his arms around his cousin. "Hurry back." Then he let go and ran inside Horst's shop, hiding in a corner until he was sure he wasn't going to embarrass himself by crying.

He emerged a few minutes later and peeked out the doorway, but Roran had disappeared.

The conversation with Horst was short and simple. Horst said he understood why Eragon couldn't work with him anymore, but that he was welcome to return when Garrow no longer needed him. Then, Eragon went to find Garrow and they made their way back to the farm. It was the longest walk Eragon had ever taken.

~*~

The hard work started the moment Eragon got back. Garrow barely gave him enough time to put his things away before handing him a hoe and sending him out into the fields. It was long, dirty, back-breaking work, and Eragon began to resent it almost immediately, which made him feel even more upset at Roran for leaving in the first place, and after about twenty minutes he threw his hoe down in disgust. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the field. Nothing. All he could see was dirt in a bunch of boring furrows and nothing else for what seemed like miles. He knew it wasn't really as bad as all that; Garrow didn't have a huge farm, and he'd be out to help Eragon before the day was out, but that didn't seem to matter.

Nothing mattered except that Roran was gone and Eragon was stuck here, and who cared about the stupid old weeds anyway? He sat down and pulled his knees up to his chin. He wanted to be in town, helping Horst with his latest project and listening to village gossip or one of Brom's stories about the old days.

Suddenly a chill ran down his spine, and he straightened. He wasn't sure why, but he had the distinct feeling that he wasn't alone in the field anymore. Frowning, he stood and put a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. He peered at the edges of the field, turning in a slow circle, but he didn't see anyone or anything out of place. And, then, as he finished his survey, he caught sight of Garrow's lanky form and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just his uncle, coming to check up on him. And that led to a moment of panic, because he'd been slacking off. He grabbed the hoe and began to viciously attack the next row of weeds.

If Garrow had noticed Eragon's laziness, he didn't say anything, and when Eragon realized he wasn't going to be in trouble, the silence became companionable rather than tense. Still, Eragon couldn't shake the feeling that someone, or something, had been watching him.

He and Garrow finally stopped when there was no longer enough light left to see the tiny weed sprouts. They ate a simple supper of bread and some vegetables Garrow had set to boil before joining Eragon in the field and then both went straight to bed. It was largely because they were so tired from the work, but Eragon also knew it was because neither of them wanted to face a silent, Roran-free evening. It didn't take Eragon long to fall asleep.

He sat up in the middle of the night, as wide awake as if someone had called his name. He listened, but the only sounds he could hear were Garrow's snoring from the next room and some rustling that was probably caused by a rat. He lay down again and pulled his blanket up to his chin, but he couldn't get back to sleep. Something felt wrong.

It wasn't the same feeling as earlier, when he'd thought he was being watched. No, this was more insistent, but less eerie. It was more like a feeling that there was something he needed to do or somewhere he needed to be, but he'd forgotten what or where.

The rustling sound increased, and he realized it was coming from the corner where he'd left his pack earlier in the day. He'd probably left some food in it, and a rat was trying to find the crumbs. Sighing, he shoved his blanket aside and went over to the pack.

The rustling stopped.

Gingerly, Eragon felt around in the corner with his hand. He didn't want to get bitten, but he wanted to scare away the rat if it was still there. But all he could feel was the canvas pack and his other set of clothes, which he'd left lying on the floor. He picked them up and re-hung them on their nails, and turned to go back to bed.

The rustling began again, only this time it was accompanied by squeaking.

"Bloody rats," he muttered as he turned back.

The sounds were coming from _inside_ his pack, he realized suddenly. A rat must have gotten stuck inside. He crouched and untied the top of it, then took a couple of steps back so the trapped rodent could escape.

No rat, and the sounds had stopped again.

Frowning, he knelt again and began to pull things out of the pack. There was nothing in it that hadn't been there that morning. Just the stone, some coins he'd forgotten to give back to Garrow, and an extra shirt.

So where was the sound coming from?

As if in response to his question, the stone began to wobble. Eragon tentatively reached out a hand towards it, and the moment his fingers touched it he felt – relief. No, not quite relief – contentment. As if this stone was the culmination of all his dreams and desires, as if having this stone around would save his life, and direct his destiny.

Then, it squeaked.

Startled, Eragon jerked back as if he'd been burned, and the rush of feelings abated. He was, once again, just a confused and tired boy staring at a squeaking stone.

Suddenly, a crack appeared in the stone's surface. The squeaking intensified, and soon there were cracks everywhere, spiderwebbing out from the center so that the surface of the stone – which Eragon was now pretty sure wasn't a stone – looked like the ground after a long drought.

And then it happened. A small section fell away, and something small and leathery was trying to poke through the hole. Eragon was tempted to reach out and help it, but when he tried something, some sort of premonition, stopped him. So he just sat and watched.

He knew now what he was seeing, even if the logical part of his brain refused to let him put a name to it. He was witnessing something that hadn't been seen in decades, maybe even centuries.

Blue shards continued to fall away from the little creature as it pushed its way out of its prison, until Eragon could see a head, then the long neck and shoulders, and, finally, after one last exertion, the whole thing – wings and all.

Sprawled on his floor was a baby dragon.

There was nothing else it could be, and still Eragon hesitated to believe. Things like this didn't just happen. A boy like him wasn't – couldn't be – lucky enough to just _find_ a dragon egg in the woods.

But then he remembered that he hadn't exactly _found_ it; it had appeared, as if by magic, which meant that it had been sent to someone, and Eragon knew for a fact that the someone wasn't him. People didn't send dragon eggs to orphans from small villages.

In fact, there was only one person Eragon could think of who would be the recipient of a dragon egg – Galbatorix. The man who'd killed or exiled all the dragons and conquered their riders. This dragon, this tiny, helpless baby, probably belonged to the king.

The dragon lifted up its head and squeaked at Eragon, then slowly it pushed itself to its feet and toddled closer. Eragon instinctively backed away; he wasn't afraid, it was too small to be scary, only about the size of a cat, but he knew that acknowledging this, and taking responsibility for it, was going to completely change his life.

The baby dragon moved towards Eragon again, and this time he didn't move away. Instead, he held out a hand for it to sniff. The moment it touched him, Eragon felt a shock of power jolt up his arm and into his head. He winced, expecting a mind-numbing headache, but he felt nothing. He turned his hand over and saw a shiny, white scar on the palm; for some reason, it looked familiar.

The dragon squeaked again, drawing his attention back to itself. It continued moving closer until it was directly in front of Eragon, and then it collapsed again. He could see in the dim light that it was sticky and covered with membranous goo. Realizing he really had no other choice, he took off his shirt and began to wipe the dragon off. It made little chirping noises as he worked and sleepily closed its eyes.

When Eragon was satisfied that it was clean, he scooped the baby up in his arms and carried it back to bed with him. Its scales were warm against his bare chest, and as he drew the blanket over them both, Eragon thought he'd never felt more contented in all his life.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: It's mid-terms. So of course I write another chapter of this, rather than my eight page take-home test. But baby dragons are so much more interesting than the Protestant Reformation. Anyway, Eragon gets caught with Saphira in this chapter. Because, really, how on earth can you keep something like that a secret from _everybody_? One more Eragon-centric chapter after this one, then I'll be returning to Brom and Arya for a short bit.

* * *

Chapter 12

Eragon awoke to a feeling of complete panic. He sat up and scrambled off his bed into the furthest corner of the room. Out. Away. His frantic actions were accompanied by a frantic squeaking. A roar came from one end of the room. Realizing he was trapped, Eragon turned to face the sound, and saw something impossibly huge – a monster. He pressed his back against the wall and sank down to the floor. It was coming, and he couldn't stop it. The baby dragon pulled itself onto his lap and curled into as small a ball as possible. Eragon crouched over it, hiding it from the monster's view.

The monster kept coming. Eragon continued to cower. He buried his face in his arms; he could feel the dragon shivering.

Pressure on his shoulder. He screamed.

The monster stopped moving, but it was still roaring. No – it wasn't roaring. The noises it was making sounded familiar, as if it were trying to talk. One sound in particular seemed as if he ought to recognize it. He lifted his head and peered up at the creature.

It was tall and shriveled, with gangly limbs and tufts of fur around its head. But he felt as if he should know it.

"Eragon."

That was it – the familiar sound. It was his name.

"Eragon, are you alright? Did you have a nightmare?"

"I – I'm fine."

"Come on, lad; stand up." The creature put its hand on Eragon's elbow. No, not a creature. A man.

"Uncle."

"That's right. Stand up, now."

Eragon ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Uncle. I don't know what happened. It was like I didn't know you. I thought you were trying to hurt me."

"Must have been some nightmare."

Eragon shook his head. "I don't remember. It's like I wasn't myself." He allowed Garrow to lift him by one arm and cradled the dragon with the other.

Garrow took a step backward, an expression of horror on his face. "What in the name of Ludik is that thing doing here?" He pointed a bony finger at the dragon, which hid its head under Eragon's arm.

"It's a dragon," Eragon said.

"I know it's a dragon. Where did you get it?"

Eragon had no idea what to say. He knew that if he told Uncle Garrow exactly where he'd gotten the dragon, he'd probably be in trouble. But he was already in trouble anyway, so what could it hurt? But that wasn't his most pressing question.

"How did you know it was a dragon?"

Garrow threw his hands up in the air. "What else could it be? Besides it's not the first dragon I've seen."

Eragon gaped at him.

"Now, answer my question. Where did it come from?"

Eragon clutched the dragon a little tighter. It squeaked in response. "It came from the Spine."

"And just what made you think that bringing a live animal – a live _dragon_ – home from the Spine was a good idea?"

"It – it wasn't alive when I found it."

"What you mean it wasn't – ?" Garrow trailed off. "The stone. The stone was a dragon egg. That's why Merlock wouldn't take it." He sat on Eragon's bed and buried his face in his hands. "You know what this means, don't you?"

Eragon nodded. "It probably belonged to Galbatorix. He's going to want her back."

Garrow looked up sharply. "Her?"

"Yes, her," Eragon said firmly. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he was positive that the dragon was female.

Garrow groaned. "Gods above, you're attached to it. Next thing, you'll be wanting to keep it."

"Of course I want to keep her. I _have_ to keep her." He was sure of that too.

"No." Garrow stood. "We have to get rid of it."

A chill ran down Eragon's spine. "What do you mean, get rid of her?"

"You know what I mean. It's dangerous. It'll attract too much attention, and attention from the king is the last thing Carvahall needs."

"But the only way to do that is to – "

"Put it down, yes."

"No!" Eragon hugged the dragon even tighter to his chest; she began to squirm, and Eragon realized he was probably making it hard for her to breathe. He loosened his grip a little, but not enough for Uncle Garrow to snatch her away if he tried. "You can't kill her. I'm responsible for her now. She's – she's part of me."

Garrow's face contorted in fury and he leapt across the room. He wrenched Eragon's arm free of the dragon and twisted it so that his palm faced up, the shiny scar plainly visible. "It's marked you," he said in disgust. "It'll be infecting your mind next, if it hasn't already."

Eragon frowned. "Infecting my mind?"

Garrow sighed and released Eragon's wrist. "It was said that dragons and Riders could hear, possibly even control, each other's thoughts. Perhaps that's why I frightened you this morning – because I frightened it."

"But I'm not a Rider!" Eragon protested.

"Yet you bear the mark. And that is not something we can take lightly." Garrow ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Figure out what to do with it for the day. The crops still have to be tended." He turned and walked out the door without a backward glance.

~*~

Eragon decided that the easiest thing to do was to take the dragon out into the fields with him. He wasn't sure that he trusted his uncle not to hurt her while he was gone. But what to do with her while he was working? At first, he thought he could just let her roam free, but she proved to be too curious. She kept scratching holes in the dirt, wandering away while looking for bugs to eat, and just generally being a distraction. After the fifth time she dug up a row of corn seeds, Eragon fished in his pocket for a length of twine he'd brought for this very purpose. He tied one end loosely around the dragon's neck and carried her to the edge of the field where he weighed the other end of twine down with a rock.

"Be good, now," he told her as he patted her on the head. She chirped happily and lifted her head so Eragon could scratch under her chin. "You sure are cute." She chirped again, and gave an excited hop, as if she understood what he was saying.

He patted her one last time, then turned back to the field. He hadn't gone more than three steps when she began to squeal like something was hurting her. Eragon whirled around, and the moment the dragon could see his face again, she fell silent. "Stop that," Eragon said firmly. "I have to work." But the moment he turned his back again she resumed squealing.

"Fine!" Eragon said shortly. "You want to come with me? You can come with me." He stripped off his shirt, tied the sleeves to the shirttail, and slung it around his neck and one shoulder. It now hung diagonally around his torso, like a sling. He bent down and untied the dragon, then nestled her in the folds of the fabric the way he'd seen women in Carvahall do with small children.

This arrangement seemed to suit her, because she chirped happily, then nestled deeper into the fabric. Eragon shook his head in mild frustration, then returned to the field. It wasn't long before the rhythmic movements of his hoeing lulled the dragon to sleep. The sun was hot, and Eragon felt it burning his shoulders, but he didn't want to wake the dragon. He decided that he needed to make a permanent sling for her so he could wear his shirt the next day.

Garrow came to check on them at mid-day. He snorted when he saw the dragon in the sling, and passed Eragon some bread and a wineskin. They ate lunch in silence, with Garrow giving the dragon sidelong glances as it coaxed bits of bread from Eragon.

"What are you calling it?" he finally asked.

Eragon looked up in surprise. He hadn't thought his uncle would care. "I haven't decided yet. I was thinking about something to do with the sky, since she's blue and can fly. Or maybe a gemstone, because of the way her scales shine in the sunlight, and because I thought she was a stone when I found her. What's the blue gem called?"

Garrow shrugged. "There's a few of them. Topazes can be blue. So can opals, I think. But they're both a lighter blue than her." He jerked his thumb at the dragon. "And there're sapphires, of course."

"Sapphire," Eragon said thoughtfully. "What do you think of that?" The dragon just stared at him. "Maybe I'll change it, make it sound more like a real name. What about Sapphie?" The dragon yawned. "Yeah, that sounds pretty stupid. Maybe Saphron?"

"That's a plant, I think," Garrow said.

"Okay, what about Saphira?" The dragon jerked her head around and stared into Eragon's eyes. "You like that one? Saphira?" She cheeped once, as if agreeing. "Alright; Saphira then."

Saphira chattered, then snuggled back down into the folds of her sling. Eragon emptied the wineskin then handed it back to Garrow. "Get back to work now," Garrow said, and accompanied his words with a pat on Eragon's sunburned shoulders. He winced and Saphira poked her head out of the sling to hiss at Garrow. "Well, at least you know you're safe with her around," Garrow said with a chuckle. He began to make his way back to the field he'd been hoeing all morning. "She is kind of cute," he threw over his shoulder. "But that doesn't mean you can keep her."

Eragon smiled down at Saphira, who stretched up and touched the end of her nose to Eragon's chin. "Don't worry," Eragon said. "Give him a few days and he'll love you like I do." Still grinning, he picked up his hoe and returned to hacking at weeds.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: First off, thank you to everyone who reads and reviews. I'm glad y'all are enjoying this as much as I am. Second, I'm going to stop hinting as to what's in future chapters, because most of the time, I end up changing my mind anyway. This one's short, so you get two tonight.

* * *

Chapter 13

The assassin carefully made his way through the woods. He was getting close; just a few minutes more and he'd be in sight of the traders' camp. They'd left Carvahall that morning and traveled south toward Therinsford; he'd been following them all day. He hadn't been able to do it in Carvahall, and it had galled him. He'd watched them day after day, hidden on the outskirts of their camp, watching, waiting for the messenger that, thank the stars, hadn't ever been sent.

But one could never be too careful – particularly not after all of the precautions he'd already taken.

There! A movement at the edge of the camp. The assassin tensed, ready to spring into action, but the man he was watching for merely came out of his tent and sat by a fire. He stayed there for nearly an hour, just sitting and smoking a pipe. Other traders called to him, inviting him to eat supper with them, but he just waved them away and stared into the flames. He looked contemplative – much more so than usual, the assassin thought. That was not a good sign.

Finally, just when the assassin thought his legs were going to seize up, the trader tapped out his pipe and kicked dirt over his fire. He called out to the traders nearest to them, wishing them a good evening, and disappeared into his tent.

Still, the assassin didn't move. It was too soon; the others were still up and about, and there was too much chance of him being seen. But he had to be closer.

Drawing his cloak more closely around him, the assassin slipped quietly through the trees, as he'd been taught so many years ago. Most humans would never see him, because they just weren't used to looking for a man to sneak through the forest. Even so, he'd taken the precaution of wearing his darkest clothes and blackening his face and hands. He'd only have one chance at this, and if he failed, everything was lost.

This angle was no good either. He couldn't see every angle of the trader's tent, which was a problem. It would be easy for the man to slip out one of the off sides. Glancing around, the assassin noticed a nearby tree; it wasn't perfect, but it would get him up high enough that he could see everything. Pushing his cloak out of his way, he leapt up and grabbed the lowest branch of the tree. Then he swung himself up and began clambering up through the branches.

"Oy! What's that?" called a voice below him. He froze, waiting to see what would happen next.

"What are you on about, Rigel?" came another voice.

"Something in the trees," said the first voice.

"Probably just a bird or a squirrel."

Silence, then, "See, you're scared it off, you great oaf. I'd have been right fond of a squirrel in the camp; it'd make a nice stew."

Laughter, then voices lowered as camp activity returned to normal.

The assassin continued his climb, but with more care this time. Finally, he satisfied himself that he was high enough, and focused his gaze on the tent at the edge of the camp. A young boy pushed out of the tent, and the assassin tensed, ready to give chase – but the boy was merely going to visit with the other traders.

Deciding that now was his best chance, the assassin dropped to the ground. The trader was alone in his tent, and the camp activity would cover any noises that might ensue. Drawing the cloak more closely about himself, he crouched and rushed across the small patch of open ground. Then he ducked into the shadow of the tent. He stood and edged his way along the shadow, quietly making his way around toward the front of the tent. A quick check around the corner to be sure no one was looking, and then he slipped inside.

He was surprised to find that the trader hadn't gone to sleep. Instead, he was facing the tent door, a dagger at the ready.

Now what?

Thinking fast, the assassin slowly raised his hands above his head. "Be silent, Merlock," he said in a harsh whisper. "They'll hear."

"Who will?" Merlock kept his voice low, but it wasn't quite a whisper.

"I came to tell you; someone wants you dead."

"Why?"

"You know too much. You saw too much in Carvahall."

Merlock frowned. "Is this about the boy and the –"

"Merlock, discretion, please."

Merlock slowly lowered the dagger. "Who sent you?"

"My allegiances don't matter. But I can get you out – no one will see you."

"Damn. I knew that boy was trouble the moment I met him."

"That will be dealt with – it needn't concern you. Put your cloak on, quickly. And your darkest clothes. We don't want to be seen."

"Right. Of course." Merlock turned his back and knelt in front of a trunk. The assassin waited until he'd opened it and then, in the next moment, was behind him, a hand clamped over Merlock's mouth. He drew his own dagger and slashed it across Merlock's throat. There was a gurgle and blood sprayed everywhere. The assassin cursed – killing by hand was always so much messier than magic, but also much less suspicious – and let Merlock's body slump to the floor. He dug through the merchant's pockets, extracting a purse of money. He gave the trunk a cursory glance, but the only thing that caught his eye was a silver rose.

Stars above, it reminded him of _her_. Beautiful, delicate looking, yet surprisingly solid.

But he wasn't here to rob the man. He'd done what he came for and he needed to get out before the servant boy came back. Still, the rose was exactly the sort of thing she would have liked; she'd given so much and he had so little left of her. Before he could talk himself out of it, he snatched the rose and tucked it away in a pocket. He'd probably regret it later, but he was used to living with regrets.

He turned back to the body now. The servant boy was sure to notice that something was amiss if he left it there, so he hefted it and carried it to the trader's bed. He arranged it on its side and covered it with a blanket. With any luck, the boy would just think his master had gone to sleep, and it would be morning before anyone noticed the boy was dead. Of course, there was a lot of blood, and if the boy was observant, he'd smell it, but there wasn't much to be done about that.

He turned back to the trunk, and dug a few things out of it, scattered some scarves and rings on the ground, and draped a few necklaces over the side of the trunk to make it look like Merlock had been killed by an ordinary thief. If he knew Merlock, the old man wouldn't have told anyone exactly what he had in his inventory, so no one would notice that nothing but the rose and some money had been stolen.

The deed accomplished and the stage set, the assassin slipped out of the tent and back into the woods. If he didn't stop to rest, and he rarely ever needed to, he'd be back in Carvahall by sunrise, and a good thing too. The villagers would get a bit nervous of their priest left the temple unattended for more than a single day.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Eragon and Saphira quickly formalized a routine. Every morning, they'd eat breakfast together, then Eragon would put her in the sling (he'd made one especially for her out of old leather and fabric scraps) and carry her out to the fields with him. They'd stop work at mid-day, and Eragon would let Saphira out of the sling to stretch her legs. Sometimes Garrow would join them for lunch, and on these occasions, Saphira went out of her way to be adorable. Sometimes she'd chase after a bug, which she would pounce on and eat with relish. Other times she'd sidle up to Garrow and offer her head to be scratched. Once, she even clambered up to Garrow's shoulders and draped herself around his neck like a scarf.

Garrow was slowly succumbing to her charms. "She seems quite clever," he told Eragon one afternoon. "She acts as if she can understand what we're saying. Now, I'm not saying that I like her," he said when Eragon started to smile. "I still wish we could be shed of her; having a dragon around the farm makes me nervous."

In truth, Eragon was feeling more nervous than usual as well. For the last week or two, he had felt as if he were being watched. Of course, when he looked he couldn't see anyone, and he didn't think Saphira was large enough to attract attention from far away, but he was uneasy nonetheless.

And not just about being watched. Saphira was growing at an alarming rate. In just one month, she had nearly doubled her size. She was still small enough that Eragon could carry her around, but he couldn't feed her on mere table scraps anymore. In addition, now that she was more comfortable with her surroundings, her curiosity was getting her into all sorts of trouble.

Like right now. On his way out to the fields, Eragon had stumbled over the body of a dead chicken. Garrow was quite proud of his hens, claiming that they laid twice as many eggs as other hens, and he had hand-raised his one rooster from a chick. The same rooster than was now lying lifeless in the dirt, feathers and blood scattered everywhere. Garrow was going to be furious when he came back.

"Saphira, where are you?" he demanded. Normally, she would answer him with some sort of sound, but today he heard nothing. "Saphira, answer me!" He shaded his eyes with a hand and scanned the property. Nothing. How in Ludik's name was she hiding from him? It wasn't as if she blended in with the dirt and grass.

Suddenly, an image of the house formed, unbidden, in his mind. What was that about? He shook his head, as if that would clear his thoughts, and concentrated on locating Saphira. Where was she? Usually, he knew instinctively where she was.

The house formed in his mind again, but this time the picture was clearer. It was actually the roof of the house he was seeing. But why? He looked up, and immediately understood. Saphira was crouched on the roof, head hanging down over the edge. She chirped happily, then another image formed in Eragon's mind – himself, holding Saphira in his arms. Instantly, Eragon realized what was happening. He had just enough time to cry, "Saphira, don't!" before the dragon launched herself off the roof.

Cursing, Eragon rushed forward. He was yards away, and Saphira didn't know how to fly yet. If he didn't hurry, she was going to hurt herself. But even as he ran towards her, Eragon began to feel a sense of elation. Saphira felt absolutely no fear. She stretched out her wings and just let herself glide, leaning slightly to the left or right when she felt herself moving off-course. She landed on Eragon's chest with a heavy thump that knocked him off his feet, but even as he fell he managed to wrap his arms around her. He landed flat on his back, dazed for a moment as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His chest and back hurt, and his heart was still racing, but under it all was contentment, which he realized was coming from Saphira's thoughts rather than his. She felt perfectly safe; she hadn't doubted, not even for an instant, that he would get there in time to catch her. What's more, he realized that she believed he would always be there for her.

Eragon was stunned. He'd been sharing Saphira's thoughts and feelings for weeks, but he'd never realized just how much she trusted him. And it was frightening. He'd known from the minute she hatched that he needed Saphira with him, and he'd known that she needed to be cared for as well, but he hadn't truly understood what that meant. He realized now that he'd been thinking of her as an exceptionally intelligent pet – but she wasn't. She was a person. Not human certainly, but she was a person with actual thoughts and desires and even dreams. And she needed him.

He was just a farm boy; what if he couldn't take care of her the way she needed to? What if he couldn't keep her safe or happy?

_Happy_.

The word cleared Eragon's mind of all other thought. It wasn't his thought anyway. His thoughts sounded different in his head. This was softer and more confident than his own thoughts usually were, and the faint twinge of voice that he could hear was high and feminine.

"You can talk!" He'd known he could read her thoughts, but hadn't expected to hear actual words.

_Saphira – Eragon. Happy_.

As if to punctuate the words, Saphira reached down and nuzzled Eragon's cheek.

"Happy?" Eragon said. "You'd better be. You scared me out of my wits _and_ you've killed Uncle's favorite chicken. You're in a lot of trouble." He sat up, and she tumbled backwards into his lap, but that didn't bother her. She just lay on her back, with her wings folded haphazardly beneath her, and stared up at him. Eragon thought that if she were physically capable of it, she'd be smiling.

"I'm serious. You're in a lot of trouble." He scooped her up and carried her over to the dead chicken. "You see that?" He pointed at it for emphasis. "That was Uncle's."

_Good_.

"Yes, it was good. It was Uncle's best chicken. Without a rooster, eggs won't hatch and we can't get more chickens."

Saphira sighed and looked up at Eragon reproachfully. _Hungry. GOOD._

Eragon had to laugh. "You cheeky little wench. I suppose we're going to have to do something about feeding you better. But next time you're hungry, how about you catch a rabbit instead?"

_Rabbit?_

"It has long ears, and it hops."

A wave of confusion from Saphira.

Eragon sighed. How to describe a rabbit? Then he thought of the way Saphira had shown him where she was hiding – by sending him an image. He concentrated on the thought of a rabbit. That was the easy part. But how to send the image to Saphira?

Impatient, Saphira nudged his hand. _Rabbit?_ she asked again.

"I'm trying," Eragon said, then continued thinking. The best way for someone else to see what you see is for them to be there with you. He concentrated on the rabbit again, then imagined that Saphira was there too, looking at it.

_Rabbit!_

Eragon smiled, pleased with himself for making it work. "Yes, that's a rabbit."

_Good?_

"Yes, rabbits are good. Now." His voice suddenly grew stern. "You're not to be catching any more of Uncle's chickens."

_Rabbit._

"That's right; rabbits instead. But now I have to go to town and buy Garrow another rooster, and you can't come. I'll have to leave you in the barn while I'm gone."

_Saphira – Eragon!_

"No. You we can't be together, not to town. Someone might see you, and they might try to take you away." Saphira squealed and tucked her head under Eragon's arm. He felt her fear as if it were his own – and maybe some of it was. "I can't lose you, Saphira. Stay here, just for a little while."

Saphira sighed, then Eragon felt her resignation. "I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise." He carried her over to the barn and opened the door. Curious, Saphira squirmed until Eragon set her on the ground. "There are plenty of things to explore in there. But _be good_."

Saphira cheeped at him, then tentatively began to pick her way across the hay-strewn floor. The last thing Eragon saw before shutting the barn door was Saphira's tail twitching in excitement just before she pounced on a rat.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: It's been about six months since I last updated this: sorry. :S It's a bit short this time, because I'm sleepy, and I'm not quite sure what happens next, but I'll put more effort into figuring that out now that I'm done with school.

* * *

Chapter 15

The walk to town in the middle of the day was long and hot. The walk back from town, carrying the chicken in its crate, was even worse. The rooster he'd bought was vicious, and every few yards it would reach its head through the bars of its cage and peck Eragon's hands. More than once, he'd nearly dropped the cage altogether, but he refused to give up, to be beaten by a mere chicken, one of the stupidest birds in Alagaësia.

He was halfway home when a wave of fear crashed over him, yet again nearly causing him to drop the crate. The image of a tall, dark stranger entered his mind unbidden, and he knew that someone was in the barn with Saphira. He could tell from the stranger's silhouette that it male, and much too tall and muscular to be Uncle Garrow. Gods above, what was the man going to do to Saphira?

Eragon broke into a run, ignoring the protesting squawks from the rooster, which flapped its wings, sending down a rain of feathers. When that didn't slow Eragons' pace, it renewed pecking at his hands. Eragon merely swore at it and ran faster. He tried to sense Saphira, to get a gauge of what she was currently seeing and feeling, but now everything was blank – the only emotions he had access to were his own fear and a mounting fury.

Saphira was _his_ dragon, and Adelia help the stranger if he hurt her. Eragon wasn't a violent person by nature, but by the time he reached the farm, he'd already killed the stranger in his head about ten different ways, each bloodier than the one before it. He dropped the crate as he ran past the chicken coop, continuing to ignore the rooster's protests, and slowed only to grab a pitchfork that was resting against the outside wall of the barn before wrenching the door open and brandishing his weapon.

"Get away from her!" he yelled, hoping that he wasn't too late, that the stranger hadn't seen what she was and killed her.

"Put that down. I'm not hurting her."

Eragon frowned – he couldn't see the man's face, but the voice was very familiar. Someone from the village, he was sure. But that didn't matter – nothing mattered until he knew Saphira was safe.

"Saphira, are you alright?"

The dragon chirped, then began to purr. Eragon tentatively lowered the pitchfork, but didn't drop it altogether.

"Who are you?" he demanded, stepping further into the barn.

The stranger clucked his tongue. "For shame, Eragon; that's not very pious of you."

Eragon frowned, but now that he was further in the barn, his eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He knew the outline of the man was familiar, and then all at once he could see, and Saphira was lying on her back, stretched across the man's lap as he tickled her belly.

"Brom?"

"That's right."

"What are you doing here?"

"We were waiting for you."

"But, why?"

Brom looked up for the first time. "I should think that was obvious."

"Right. Wait, what?"

Brom sighed, moved Saphira to a pile of straw and used his walking stick to pull himself to his feet. Eragon, for once, didn't try to help him. "I'm here because of Saphira. You didn't think I'd find out there was a dragon rider in Carvahall and just let it go, did you?"

Now Eragon dropped the pitchfork. It clattered to the floor, where Saphira pounced on it and began to gnaw on the handle. "How did you know?"

"You weren't terribly secretive. I heard you talking to her egg in the temple, and after that Merlock told me everything I need to know. Besides –" He held out his right hand so that Eragon could see the shiny scar. "Like calls to like."

"You? You're a dragon rider?"

"I was, yes; before you were born."

All of Eragon's anger and worry changed to curiosity in an instant. "What happened?"

"The inevitable." For a moment he looked sad, and Eragon again had the impression that he'd seen tragedy, but then he shrugged. "It was a long time ago." He turned his gaze back to the baby dragon, who had managed to chew her way through the handle of the pitchfork. "She says her name is Saphira."

"Yes. How did you know? Can you hear her thoughts too?"

"Only if she wants me to; a rider only has the constant connection with his own dragon."

For the better part of a moment, the only sounds in the barn were Saphira's playful growls, but then Eragon asked again, "Why are you here?"

"I am here," Brom said, "to help you. There are skills you will need to learn that only I can teach you – magic and combat, mostly – and you need to learn the proper way to raise and teach Saphira. In addition, you need protection, both from others and from yourselves. In short, you cannot carry on alone and expect to survive."

He was right. Eragon knew he was right, but it was all so sudden. He'd barely gotten used to the idea that he had a dragon – or that a dragon had him – and now Brom was wanting to train him in magic and –

"You want to train me for combat. That's like war isn't it?" Brom inclined his head in a nod. "Wait, are you expecting me – _us_ to go to war? To fight against the king?"

"Yes."

Eragon got angry again. "Now hold on a minute – "

"I would never order you to enter a war against your will," Brom cut in, "but it is only a matter of time before the king finds out that Saphira has hatched for you, and then you'll have to make a choice – serve him, or fight against him. To do neither would be suicide."

Eragon dropped to his knees and Saphira, sensing his distress, crawled into his lap. _Eragon. Unhappy?_

"A little, yeah."

_Saphira – Eragon. Unhappy?_

"No, of course not! How could I be unhappy that I met you?"

Reassured, Saphira rubbed her head against Eragon's hand. He turned his attention back to Brom, who acted as if he hadn't been paying attention to their conversation. "I don't know about the war, but I know I've got to be able to protect her if the king comes for her. What do I have to do?"

"At the moment, nothing. I need to do a bit of groundwork first, find us a place where we can train in secret. The Spine seems the safest place, but it's too far – neither of us can afford to be going up there every day, or even every week. But I'll find something. Until then, carry on as you have been – feed her, protect her, love her and she'll do the same for you as far as she's able." He walked past Eragon to the door of the barn, where he stopped and looked back. "You have a very angry chicken in a crate out here. You might want to look to that before your uncle gets back from the fields." A moment later, he was gone.


End file.
